Baking a multitude of tartes tatins for local restaurants, an Ohio
housewife contemplates her four kids, husband, cats and chickens.
Also, America's ignoble past, and her own regrets. She is surrounded
by dead lakes, fake facts, Open Carry maniacs, and oodles of online
advice about survivalism, veil toss duties, and how to be more like
Jane Fonda. But what do you do when you keep stepping on your son's
toy tractors, your life depends on stolen land and broken treaties,
and nobody helps you when you get a flat tire on the interstate, not
even the Abominable Snowman? When are you allowed to start swearing?
With a torrent of consciousness and an intoxicating coziness, Ducks,
Newburyport lays out a whole world for you to tramp around in, by
turns frightening and funny. A heart-rending indictment of America's
barbarity, and a lament for the way we are blundering into
environmental disaster, this book is both heresy—and a revolution
in the novel.