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A BookRiot Most Anticipated Travel Book of 2023

Italian beef and hot dogs get the headlines. Cutting-edge cuisine and big-name chefs get the Michelin stars. But Chicago food shows its true depth in classic dishes conceived in the kitchens of immigrant innovators, neighborhood entrepreneurs, and mom-and-pop visionaries.

Monica Eng and David Hammond draw on decades of exploring the city’s food landscape to serve up thirty can’t-miss eats found in all corners of Chicago. From Mild Sauce to the Jibarito and from Taffy Grapes to Steak and Lemonade, Eng and Hammond present stories of the people and places behind each dish while illuminating how these local favorites reflect the multifaceted history of the city and the people who live there. Each entry provides all the information you need to track down whatever sounds good and selected recipes even let you prepare your own Flaming Saganaki or Akutagawa.

Generously illustrated with full-color photos, Made in Chicago provides locals and visitors alike with loving profiles of a great food city’s defining dishes.

Conceived of as a memoir in poems of late-life love and its betrayal, Magic Lantern traces the borders of loss and investigates the source of our strength to traverse them, finding the roots of resilience in ordinary interactions and illuminating the undramatic power of simple connections. "At a time of our lives when the only hands / we can expect to touch us this gently / will be wearing latex gloves," Aleshire recounts a tender moment before romantic rupture. "The technician in the ER said softly, / trying to attach your heart monitors, / You’re so hairy, I’m not sure / this will stick, but I thought / it didn’t matter how intimately / they handled you; my love / had covered, would cover / you, before and after them." When the realization of the beloved’s treachery obliterates this lucidity and generosity, the speaker feels violated and estranged from herself, reducing the narrative of the affair to “what we did / in the dark, until we became / the dark.” The private destabilization of this heartache pales but compounds the shadows of a world already rent by international war and domestic political upheaval, but Aleshire orients toward another light source: the rewarding labor of building community and the noble pursuit of seeking meaning itself. The title poem executes a beautiful metacommentary on the value of art, which is to say going to the effort, trying for trying’s sake. At a local filmmaker’s screening, the speaker marvels at the powerful impression the artist has rendered with black-and-white film, astonished by how “the depths and brights, / shadows and gleams... make us watching / feel more.” In these deeply compassionate and vulnerable poems, Aleshire draws our attention to the artistry of our lives, the luminosity we stroke and orchestrate through our meticulous care and enduring bonds. This is the light we see by. A transportative seventh collection, Magic Lantern draws the disordered overwhelm of the human experience into a dazzling, seamless sequence of images, setting the ordinary into motion so that it not only coheres, but glows. 

During the nineteenth century, Americans celebrated their towns and cities through printed landscapes. In Maine, lithographs were commissioned from such leading artists as Fitz Henry Lane and talented, lesser known local artists, such as Esteria Butler. This book reproduces many of these works and provides insights into how these growing centers of commerce and industry viewed themselves and wished to be viewed by others. 

It’s the perfect book for those who love Maine, both full-time residents and those who make it a beloved summer destination. 

Published in association with the Bowdoin College Museum of Art on the occasion of the bicentennial of Maine statehood.

The greatest bibliographer of our time, was how historian Robert Darnton described D. F. McKenzie. Yet until now many of McKenzie's major essays, scattered in specialist journals and inaccessible publications, have circulated mainly in tattered photocopies. This volume, edited by two of McKenzie's former students, brings together for the first time a wide range of his writings on bibliography, the book trade, and the “sociology of texts.” Selected by the author himself before his sudden death in 1999, the essays range from the material transmission of Shakespeare's plays in the seventeenth century to the connections among oral, manuscript, and print cultures. 

Making Meaning reflects McKenzie's virtuosity as a traditional bibliographer and reveals how his thought-provoking scholarship made him a driving force in the genesis and development of the new interdisciplinary field of book history. His refusal to recognize the traditional boundary between bibliography and literary history re-energized the study of the social, political, economic, and cultural aspects of book production and reception. 

The editors' introduction and headnotes situate McKenzie's innovative and controversial thinking in the debates of his time.

In this book, R. Todd Romero traces the interaction of notions of gender, the practice of religion, and the conduct of warfare in colonial America. He shows how Native and Anglo-American ideas of manhood developed in counterpoint, in the context of Christian evangelization, colonial expansion, and recurrent armed conflict. 

For the English, the cultivation of manliness became an important aspect of missionary efforts. Conversion demanded that the English “make men” of the Indians before they could “make them Christians,” a process that involved reshaping Native masculinity according to English patriarchal ideals that the colonists themselves rarely matched. For their part, Native Americans held on to older ways of understanding the divine and defining gender even as they entered English “praying towns” and negotiated the steep demands of the missionaries. 

Evolving ideas of masculinity resonated with religious significance and shaped the meaning of warfare for Natives and colonists alike. Just as the English believed that their territorial expansion was divinely sanctioned, Indians attributed a string of victories in King Philip's War to “the Great God” and the perception that their enemies “were like women.” Trusting that war and manliness were necessarily linked, both groups engaged in ritual preparations for battle, believed deeply in the efficacy of the supernatural to affect the outcome of combat, and comprehended the meaning of war in distinctly religious ways.

A strange, cacophonous, and contemplative long poem following a posthumous narrator making meaning of life and death. 

Lloyd Wallace’s book-length poem Mammal Pit uses the imaginative technologies of literature to try to say something true about being alive. Conceived as though spoken in a single, long breath by an ostensibly posthumous narrator, this soliloquy accrues fragments, images, impressions, jokes, and regrets as it progresses. The narrator recalls moments from his past life, running through the American South, crossing the long Ohio River into Pittsburgh, and zigzagging over to the oiled, silent hallways of the US Capitol, all while calling up and attempting to make sense of what it was to be alive in a human body surrounded by the heavy liquid of time. Studded with strange, exacting images—“Men dreaming of knives / In such excruciating detail / They wake up with paper cuts / Saliva wife”—Wallace’s debut collection attempts to ask the questions poetry is made to answer: What do you do with death? What do you do when it’s standing beside you? What can you do but hold its hand?

Wallace’s humorous and morbid romp across America and across the boundaries of life and death whirls language away from expected patterns and forms. Committed to the question of what it means to die, Wallace faces its inevitability and the fact that we are all doing it as we speak. 

Mammal Pit is the winner of the 2027 Phoenix Emerging Poet Book Prize. 

The secret history of manly eating in the Heart of Dixie

Man Food: Recipes from the Iron Trade is a flavorful tribute to Alabama’s industrial soul and culinary heart. Born from the legendary Sloss Furnaces in Birmingham—once the beating heart of the Magic City’s iron industry—this cookbook blends Southern tradition, foundry grit, and backyard hospitality into one unforgettable volume.

Collected from the pages of Pig Iron Rough Notes, a magazine once circulated among Alabama’s ironworkers, these recipes reflect the lives of men who forged metal by day and cooked with cast iron by night. Inside, you’ll find dishes like Brunswick Stew, Catfish Chowder, and Bean Hole Beans—hearty meals rooted in Alabama’s outdoors, work camps, and family kitchens.

With colorful stories, vintage illustrations, and a deep appreciation for cast-iron cooking, Man Food celebrates the “Gentlemen Cooks” of the South—men who knew that good food and good company were just as important as hard work. Whether you're a native Alabamian, a history buff, or a lover of Southern foodways, this book offers a delicious slice of Alabama culture.

Fire up your skillet, pour a cup of camp coffee, and taste the legacy of the Iron Trade—Alabama style.

This memoir is an act of map making, of plotting out overlapping territories—topographical, temporal, and psychological. Centered on family life in a Massachusetts town from the 1920s to the 1960s, the author's investigation extends outward to include the Boston area from colonial times to the recent past, encounters with Boston's Museum of Fine Arts and with Harvard College, the American Civil War, and Ireland and Germany in the nineteenth century.

Charles Fanning re-creates the landscape of childhood and adolescence in a place and time both ordinary and rich with possibility. An expert on Irish immigration, he was born and raised in Norwood, Massachusetts, twelve miles outside of Boston, where Yankee and Irish cultures bumped against each other. The narrative traces his personal growth, shaped by family, school, baseball, radio drama, and art. He was the first in his family to attend college, and the book ends with his undergraduate experience at Harvard, class of 1964.

Along with this coming-of-age story, Mapping Norwood features forays back in time, including chapters on each of Fanning's parents and historical excavations and meditations on three ancestors. Guided by his own experience as a scholar, the pressure of these chapters is epistemological—the thrill of the hunt toward knowing. Fanning's great-grandfather, John Fanning, disappeared from the family in the late 1880s, and a chapter chronicles the discovery of “Walking John's” fifty years of hidden later life in East St. Louis, Illinois, where he died alone in 1946. Fanning's great-great-grandfather, Winslow Radcliffe, was a veteran of the 35th Massachusetts Infantry in the Civil War, and the author traces this regiment through the horrors of Antietam and Fredericksburg, by means of diaries and letters by four men from Winslow's company. The evidence gleaned helps explain Winslow's suicide after the war. An Irish immigrant ancestor, Phillip Fanning, came to Boston from County Monaghan just after the Great Famine of the late 1840s. Relying on historical research, Fanning imagines vividly the lives led by Phillip's family and thousands like them in the wake of Ireland's nineteenth-century catastrophe.

Unemployment levels have received a great deal of attention and discussion in recent years. However, another labor category—underemployment—has virtually been ignored. Underutilized or underemployed workers are those who are experiencing inadequate hours of work, insufficient levels of income, and mismatch of occupation and skills. Marginal Workers, Marginal Jobs addresses two principal issues: how can we measure underemployment, and how can we explain its prevalence?

To answer the first question, Teresa Sullivan examines yardsticks in use, demonstrates their inadequacy, and develops a different measure that is easy to interpret and is usable by both demographers and economists. In answering the second, she analyzes 1960 and 1970 census data to determine the relative effects of population composition and job structure on levels of employment.

One of the important contributions of Sullivan's study is to distinguish between marginal workers and marginal jobs in explaining underutilization. Previous explanations, including the widely used dual market theory, have not stressed this analytic distinction. In addition, her work accounts separately for the various types of marginality and seeks to show the condition of workers who are marginal on more than one count—for example, those who are both young and black, or old and female.

A provocative study based on large samples of the U.S. population, this book raises important questions about a critical subject and makes a significant contribution to the theory of underutilization.

One became America’s greatest writer. The other died in obscurity and failure. As brothers, they shaped each other's lives and work.

In a compelling way, Philip Fanning traces the fraternal relationship of Orion and Samuel Clemens from its beginning in Hannibal, Missouri, in the 1830s to Orion's death in Iowa in 1897. He demonstrates that Orion’s influence on the writer known as Mark Twain was profound, pervasive, and prolonged.

In some respects, Samuel defined himself against Orion’s formidable background. It was Orion who became the chief financial and spiritual support of the Clemens family following the father's controversial death in 1847. It was Orion who led the way for his brother into printing, journalism, and mine speculation. And it was Orion who served as Sam’s first real editor and literary mentor, recognizing and encouraging his younger brother’s talents as a writer.

The two siblings had much in common, and they often appeared to be codependent, so much so that their attitudes veered sharply from mutual admiration to mutual disdain and rivalry. Whereas Orion was self-effacing, easygoing, humble, and adventurous in his politics and progressive in his views, Twain was often ill-tempered and antagonistic toward those around him and conservative in his outlook. He frequently portrayed his older brother in autobiographical writings and letters as a buffoon and a laughingstock.

Fanning—who drew upon extensive archival sources, unpublished letters between the two brothers, and the Mark Twain Papers at the University of California, Berkeley—charts these divergences in their characters and in their fortunes. As Twain rose to become a national celebrity and a financial success, Orion's finances and self-esteem disintegrated, and Twain’s treatment of his brother became evermore harsh and mocking. Fanning’s study stands as both a biography of a fractious fraternal relationship and a work of scholarship that highlights for the first time how significantly Orion Clemens influenced Twain’s psychic and artistic economy.
 

Discover the spiritual depths behind America’s greatest humorist.

Mark Twain is often pictured as a severe critic of religious piety, shaking his fist at God and mocking the devout. Such a view, however, is only partly correct. It ignores the social realities of Twain’s major period as a writer and his own spiritual interests: his participation in church activities, his socially progressive agenda, his reliance on religious themes in his major works, and his friendships with clergymen, especially his pastor and best friend, Joe Twichell. It also betrays a conception of religion that is more contemporary than that of the period in which he lived.

Harold K. Bush Jr. highlights Twain’s attractions to and engagements with the wide variety of religious phenomena of America in his lifetime, and how these matters affected his writings. Though Twain lived in an era of tremendous religious vigor, it was also a time of spiritual upheaval and crisis. The rise of biological and psychological sciences, the criticism of biblical texts as literary documents, the influx of world religions and immigrant communities, and the trauma of the Civil War all had dramatic effects on America’s religious life. At the same time mass urban revivalism, the ecumenical movement, Social Christianity, and occultic phenomena, like spiritualism and mind sciences, all rushed in to fill the voids. The rapid growth of agnosticism in the 1870s and 1880s is also clearly reflected in Twain’s life and writings. Thus Twain’s career reflects in an unusually resonant way the vast changes in American belief during his lifetime.

Bush’s study offers both a new and more complicated understanding of Twain and his literary output and serves as the cultural biography of an era.