I started Stanley Tucci’s latest memoir the day after the election because I needed something that required absolutely nothing from me. This book didn’t need my emotions or intellect. I didn’t have to be smart or even all that invested in order to give it my attention. On a week when I’m all brained out? Perfect.

I was heartbroken to finish the book today. Between the cost of hardcover books these days (thirty five US dollars) and how much I was enjoying it, I was saddened to turn the last page.

As you would assume, What I Ate in One Year starts on January 2, 2023 and goes through January 1, 2024 chronicling a year in the life of Stanley Tucci. When the book opens, he’s in the middle of filming a movie that I just saw a preview for in a theater last month. So… that was pretty fascinating to me. I had no interest in the film when I saw the preview but now that I know he was staying in a hotel suite that he really didn’t care for and avoiding terrible craft services by making his own minestrone (but thoroughly enjoying his co-stars and director) throughout, I gotta say, I’m invested.

I’m never drawn to celebrity memoirs. Probably because I am certain that they’ll be filled with fancy cars, yachts, and other things I don’t care about. Something about Stanley’s first memoir, Taste, appealed to me though. The fact that it was centered around food instead of celebrity. But the main reason that I read Taste was because I was a bookseller at the time and I got a free advance of the audiobook and he narrated it. And I do love his voice ever so much. Who could resist? Taste was magical. And I’m glad I listened on audiobook, if only to hear him gag as he speaks of breaking spaghetti prior to cooking it.

So I picked up What I Ate in One Year knowing that I’d find a book full of heart and thoughtfulness and humor (and a few recipes). And I certainly did. There was also a fair share of things like luxurious vacations and a-list celebrity friends and relatives, movie premieres, galas, etc. But I think what I loved so much about this book was the way that Stanley is all of us. At the end of the day, he comes home from work. He makes spaghetti for his children. He scrubs the dishes. He watches a movie on the couch until bedtime. He wakes up and does it all again.

The way he talks about his family and friends is with so much love–as someone who has known the depths of grief. And we know that he did–his wife of 14 years passed away when his oldest children were quite young. I wonder if that’s why he writes of his family and friends with so much ache and appreciation.

And through it all–whether you’re in-laws with Emily Blunt and John Krasinski or a regular person flailing her way through a mid-life change (hi), there are dishes in the sink. Not because the chores are endless but because we are sharing meals and wine with people that we love.

Anyway, I’m wondering if I’m opposed to celebrity memoirs because of what I imagine celebrity to be and not because I’m appreciating the very real humanity of the person who just so happens to be a celebrity. In the end, we all eat spaghetti.