French Dirt

I’ll admit: I approached *French Dirt* expecting something cozy—a *Under the Tuscan Sun* with more compost. What I got instead was a memoir that’s equal parts stubborn and tender, like a plant that refuses to die despite your neglect. Goodman’s prose is spare but sharp, and Zernike’s narration leans into that, his voice a mix of weary amusement and quiet triumph. There’s a scene early on where Goodman describes his first attempt at plowing with a borrowed mule, and Zernike’s timing—pausing just long enough for you to imagine the mule’s side-eye—had me laughing out loud. That said, the audiobook isn’t without its stumbles. The pacing occasionally drags in the middle, when Goodman dives deep into the politics of his tiny village. While these sections underscore his outsider status, they sometimes feel like detours from the garden’s story. Where the audiobook *shines* is in its refusal to tidy up the narrative. Goodman’s failures (the cabbages that bolt, the well that runs dry) aren’t just obstacles; they’re the point. Zernike’s performance excels here—his voice roughens slightly during Goodman’s frustrations, softens when describing the old farmer who becomes his unlikely ally. The production is clean, though I wished for more ambient sounds (a rustle of leaves, a distant tractor) to deepen the immersion. Still, this is a memoir that understands gardening isn’t about mastery—it’s about showing up, season after season. If you’ve ever loved a place that didn’t love you back (or just wanted to), this one’s worth your time.