Blood Like Magic is a captivating and enchanting book that delves into the world of magic and family ties. The story follows a young girl named Voya, who comes from a long line of witches known as the Witchlings. In this alternate version of Earth, magic is real and tightly regulated by the government. Voya's family is facing a dire situation – their powers are fading, and without a new infusion of magic, they risk losing everything. To save their heritage, Voya is tasked with a dangerous mission - she must complete a rite of passage known as the Harvest. The Harvest involves obtaining a specific type of blood from someone from her lineage – her first love.
Don’t believe the myth: making pastry is not that difficult. It can be done with great success in a food processor. Temperature is everything. The key time to chill pastry is after shaping and before baking. When the butter firms up, it sets the pastry case into the desired shape. If not sufficiently chilled, the butter metals during cooking resulting in greasy, misshapen pastry. Most pastries need at least 30 minutes in the fridge to chill until firm to the touch (you can put them in the freezer if you are short of time).
Instead, you ll very likely find all of the following labour-saving appliances a free-standing electric mixer, a stick blender, a spice grinder, a food processor, a pasta machine. What home cooks call being organised , pro cooks call mise-en-place , the French term for having all the ingredients and equipment at the ready before you even start cooking.
The Harvest involves obtaining a specific type of blood from someone from her lineage – her first love. This requirement forces Voya to navigate the complexities of teenage romance and confront her own desires and fears head-on. As Voya embarks on her quest, she discovers secrets about her family's past and unravels a web of betrayal and deceit.
Pandemic Cooking Isn’t About Hope. It’s About Practical Magic
There’s a story in Chinese mythology about a girl who drowns in the sea and becomes a bird called Jingwei. Jingwei vows to fill the sea and spends eternity flying back and forth, dropping one pebble into the water at a time. In recent days, I’ve found myself thinking of Jingwei often. Is her story one of dedication? Or futility?
As someone who works for a large medical group, most days feel like dropping pebbles in an ocean. Recently, my therapist asked me what I’m hopeful about, and I struggled to answer. I didn’t know how to explain that I see hope as a form of magical thinking, and I’m tired of magical thinking. Magical thinking changes all the time: No on masks, yes on masks. Maybe avoid heartburn medications—on the other hand, maybe not. A vaccine by fall, now by spring. The coronavirus has already reduced medicine to talismans, politics, and hope; I need something else.
Like many others, I’ve been cooking.
I bought my fair share of beans and pasta back in March. But once I was home, surveying the lentils, the pintos, the boxed mac and cheese, I wondered why I’d bought all these things that had never been part of my routine. Every time I looked at them, I was reminded of all the places I couldn’t go, all the things I couldn’t do. I missed Chinatown and Flushing, places where I had spent most of my time before the pandemic, soaking myself in supermarkets and food courts for entire days.
I made one pot of beans and I knew I would not make another, but when I looked at my soybeans, something clicked. I’d seen my mom make soy milk in a pressure cooker, so that’s what I did. Water and soybeans—simple enough. It seemed wasteful to throw out the pulp, so I turned it into pancakes. There was so much soy milk, it was only logical to set some of it into silken tofu, and then to cook a little ginger with sugar to drizzle over it. All of a sudden, I was back at Golden Unicorn, taking that last bite of doufuhua when it’s the only thing you can fit into a belly already stuffed with har gow and cheung fun.
The next week, I rigged my bamboo steamer into a makeshift tofu press. When it worked—when I got to drag a butter knife through my block of tofu and feel its gentle yield—I felt like the sorcerer’s apprentice.
I called my mom.
My mom wasn’t always a cook. After we moved to the States when I was six, necessity drove her to the kitchen and homesickness inspired her to begin recreating from scratch all the little things we’d taken for granted in Nanjing. Family dinner was sacrosanct, but also fairly bizarre—she was always trying to figure out how to make things like jiuniang, or youtiao, or duck fat shaobing, but also trying out lowbrow American hacks like melting American cheese on steamed broccoli, crumbling ramen noodles into salad, or baking meat and fish in a coating of pre-seasoned “Italian” breadcrumbs. My diet was mostly Chinese failures and American shortcuts.
Her kitchen experiments, even when they failed and there was pot after pot of rotten jiuniang rice littering the apartment, conveyed a can-do spirit. From her, I learned that things like cured duck eggs and tofu did not spring into existence in some factory, nor did they require mystical hours at the hands of an artisan. I also learned that neither time nor money were correlated with tastiness. I loved her almond Jell-O with syrupy canned mandarin oranges as equally as I loved her hand-kneaded mantou.
Before the pandemic, I tried to follow certain beliefs de rigueur around food as far as finances would allow: that freshness is deliciousness, that slow beats fast, that the most organic, sustainable and local choices are the most ethical choices. Under new constraints, I’ve found that these dictums cannot stand, at least not consistently. Some days I have the privilege of fresh produce, other days I have the privilege of time, and other days I have neither. If it means that my ingredient base has become less local, and that I’m relying on more canned or frozen items from far away—even as I’m also making more things from scratch—I’m okay with that. The circumstances demand flexibility. It turns out that growing up in a household of displaced people has made me surprisingly comfortable with cooking this way.
I spend my workdays chipping away at tasks that feel impossible, my head filled with the uncertain swirl of virtual visit logistics, testing, PPE, social distancing directives, and reimbursement policies. Imagine you’re trying to untangle the biggest pile of cords in the world, but you’re not sure if any of those cords are connected to functional devices, all while someone screams at you from the sidelines. I think this is how my mom felt when we first moved to the U.S., and she was facing down her own set of impossibles: going to school, working, and raising young kids all while being broke and tenuously documented. I think I understand now why she was flooded with marvel and joy every time she finally nailed a recipe.
What I struggled to explain to my therapist: to be able to make mapo tofu from scratch, starting with a humble dried soybean, is more powerful than hope. It’s actual, practical alchemy. Only in that moment do I no longer feel as if I am uselessly flapping my wings to beat back an ocean.
Pandemic cooking stopped being depressing once I started making what I actually wanted to eat. Even if I couldn’t grocery shop as often as I wanted to, cooks and writers I’d long looked up to helped me stretch what I had: from the forager Marie Viljoen, I learned when and where to find mugwort, Japanese knotweed, field garlic, and pokeweed through spring to supplement my store-bought herbs and greens. From the blogger Maangchi, I adapted kimchi methods to make my precious Chinatown vegetables last longer between trips. From my former mentor David Ferguson of Restaurant Gus in Montreal, I remembered that old cheffy secret: a well-made Caesar salad is still the best way to make romaine lettuce and pantry staples feel like a million bucks. It’s not lost on me that my favorite cooks are all immigrants, people who’ve had to go upstream, reverse-engineering not just prepared dishes but the very pantry ingredients that go into them, adapting as they go.
Infuse your cooking with your intention by singing about it while you cook. Take a simple phrase like, “I am loved,” and expand on it. It might sound something like this: “I am loved, my heart feels warm and aglow. I radiate love, and my family feels my warmth. I feel whole…” You get the idea.
The book masterfully blends magical elements with contemporary themes such as the importance of family, sacrifice, and the power of love. Moreover, Blood Like Magic explores complex societal issues such as discrimination, privilege, and the impact of government control on individual lives. Through Voya's journey, the reader is taken on a thought-provoking exploration of these topics, shedding light on the consequences of a world where magic is both cherished and feared. The characters in Blood Like Magic are richly developed and relatable, each with their own unique struggles and motivations. From Voya's strict grandmother to her rebellious younger brother, the family dynamics provide a realistic backdrop against which the story unfolds. Author Liselle Sambury's writing style is both vibrant and evocative, effortlessly transporting the reader into a world where magic thrives. The pacing is well-balanced, keeping readers on the edge of their seats while also allowing for moments of introspection and character development. Blood Like Magic is a must-read for fans of urban fantasy and young adult fiction. The book seamlessly weaves together magic, romance, and social commentary to create a story that is both entertaining and thought-provoking. It leaves readers eagerly awaiting the next installment in the series and solidifies Sambury's place in the genre..
Reviews for "Exploring the Concept of Fate in 'Blood Like Magic"
1. Jane - 2/5 stars - While I was initially intrigued by the concept of "Blood Like Magic," I found myself disappointed with the execution. The pacing was extremely slow, and it felt like nothing significant happened until the last few chapters. The characters were also underdeveloped, lacking depth and complexity. Overall, I struggled to stay engaged with the story and did not find it as captivating as I had hoped.
2. Alex - 3/5 stars - "Blood Like Magic" had an interesting premise and world-building, but it fell short in terms of character development. The protagonist, Voya, lacked agency and seemed to make illogical decisions at times. The romance aspect of the story also felt forced and unrealistic. I was hoping for more depth and emotional connection, but unfortunately, I was left feeling indifferent towards the characters and their struggles.
3. Sarah - 2.5/5 stars - While the magical system in "Blood Like Magic" had potential, it was overshadowed by a lackluster plot and unengaging writing style. The story felt repetitive and predictable, with little surprises or twists. Additionally, the dialogue between characters felt stilted and unnatural, making it difficult for me to connect with them. Overall, I was disappointed by the book and did not find it as compelling as other similar titles in the genre.
4. Ryan - 2/5 stars - I had high hopes for "Blood Like Magic," but it fell flat for me. The world-building was weak, leaving me with many unanswered questions and a lack of clarity. The pacing was also uneven, with slow moments that dragged on and rushed resolutions. Furthermore, the main character's decisions often lacked logic, making it difficult for me to invest in her journey. Overall, I found the book to be underwhelming and did not enjoy it as much as I had anticipated.