Whatever I felt when I was reading Samuelsson’s book has absolutely changed for me. I read it the first time with my bias against the genre fully intact. I resented him skimming over the surface of his life, leaving so many parts of his journey unexplored, his lack of introspection, the un-memoir of it all, the lack of any emotional feel. On my second read, I was so aware of my white privilege, struck by my easy passage through life, blending freely without a thought. I wore it on every page as Samuelsson went from one white inhabited kitchen in Sweden to Austria to Switzerland to France to New York. Shame on me.