Nancy Sherman (1) (1931–)

I picked up this vintage picture-book from Nancy Sherman - which, now that I investigate online, looks rather costly to obtain! - on a dollar cart outside one of Manhattan's used bookstores, and being struck by the title, as well as the (very!) bright illustrations, decided to give it a chance. Told in rhyming couplets, The Boy Who Ate Flowers is the story of a young boy who, turning up his nose at his mother's oatmeal, satisfies his hunger by munching on her flower garden instead. Soon, the boy's taste for flowers (and his distracted mother's desire to keep him fed) leads to the arrival of Algernon - a floral chef from (Naturellement!) Paris, France - and the creation of ever more intricate flower dishes. Until, one day...

I imagine that this is the sort of book for which, having grown up reading it, a person might cherish a nostalgic fondness. With the exception of a few stumbles, the narrative reads well, and the artwork by Nancy Carroll is extremely bright, and attention-grabbing. That said, this simply wasn't to my taste, feeling rather dated - Mom, Dad and Little Boy all feel very 1950s, in a stereotypical "Leave It to Beaver" sense - a little too lurid, visually, and just... well, boring. I just wasn't that interested in the story itself. I'm glad I picked it up, since I think it very representative of mid-twentieth-century American picture-books, and I have an interest in the history of children's literature, but I can't say that The Boy Who Ate Flowers is an outstanding book, in its own right, and I can't see it having much appeal for today's young readers.

Addendum: I'm happy to say that I passed my copy on to someone with fond memories of it. Always glad when books find an appreciative home!… (mere)