Writer and illustrator Ariella Elovic got started on her graphic memoir, “Cheeky,” by writing about her irritable bowel syndrome.

Specifically about “how women don’t talk about it,” she told me. “There’s not a lot of talk of women pooping, or having any bodily functions at all, really.”

IBS isn’t the only thing women don’t talk about. As you will know if you have ever attended middle school or leafed through a women’s magazine, nearly every part of the body can be a source of stigma and shame. Over time, Elovic’s musings morphed into a blog, which spawned a popular Instagram account that combats body shame by naming all the funny, funky, messy things our bodies do: She draws leg hair and sweaty armpits, jiggling thighs and surprise periods. When I’m on social media, scrolling through carefully posed photos and digitally altered faces, it’s always a relief to stumble upon an Elovic illustration of, say, a mostly naked woman examining her own bunions.

I chatted with Elovic via Zoom about her memoir, Jewish summer camp and her favorite snacks. (She has a whole newsletter devoted to them!) Here’s what she had to say.

Where she works:

My workspace is a desk with a bookshelf that I had in my childhood bedroom. It’s probably from Pottery Barn. I have a bunch of books from other illustrators I love propped up there, and little knick-knacks from travel and childhood. I feel like the physical embodiment of my brain is that desk.

Her favorite work snacks:

I always have little bowls and things next to my desk. I went through a veggie straw phase, and right now I’m really into Annie’s cheese crackers. It has to be something that isn’t super messy, because I don’t want to get it all over my paper. Usually things that are poppable.

How Jewish summer camp helped her body image:

We had this big shower house, and for efficiency everyone just piled in, as many as could fit, and had a little shower party. I was exposed to so many different bodies. Back at my bunk, I had CosmoGirl and Seventeen and all these magazines that were giving me the opposite messaging. I don’t remember questioning it that early, I was definitely in my head like, “Don’t eat so many carbs.” But subconsciously, it was neutralized a little bit because I had girls in my bunk who were bigger than me, smaller than me, my size, stretch marks, no stretch marks.

Her WFH tips:

Taking a walk is the best. And I keep telling myself to cook something elaborate. I’m sure that’s really fun, I just haven’t been able to do it yet. But I’m sure that’s a good break.

OK. HERE'S WHAT I MISSED...

If you quarantine-binged HBO’s blockbuster murder mystery “The Undoing” last year, you’re already familiar with Korelitz’s work — her novel “You Should Have Known” inspired the miniseries. That novel unfolded in the preppiest of Manhattan prep schools, a world of sumptuous PTA lunches and too many galas for anyone’s good. But Korelitz set her latest novel in a decidedly less glamorous setting: a writers’ workshop.

Our protagonist is Jacob Finch Bonner, a has-been author who smugly derides his graduate students to avoid reckoning with his own descent into obscurity. When an arrogant student announces he’s conceived a plot that will land him on every bestseller list, Jacob is nothing but peeved. But the plot really is that good. And when the student unexpectedly dies without writing his book, Jacob realizes he can simply … steal it. (“The Plot” is far from the first plagiarism thriller, but in Korelitz’s hands the concept feels original.) Of course, no misdeed goes without a cascade of consequences. Jacob thinks his secret is safe, but someone out there knows he’s a fraud — and is determined to expose him.

Potboilers don’t always entice me, but I make an exception for Korelitz because she sinks so completely into the milieu she’s chosen: In this case, the world of writers so desperate to produce new work and get people to read it that they’ll do anything to succeed. The events of “The Plot” may be outsized, but Korelitz’s observations about the cringeworthy behavior of writers who aren’t living up to their own expectations feel spot-on.

Goldman is a five-time novelist and a journalist known for his coverage of Guatemalan civil wars in the 1980s. Francisco Goldberg, the fictional protagonist of “Monkey Boy,” has recently returned to the United States after decades of writing about those same wars. When we meet him, he’s on a train to Boston, heading to visit his mother — who, incidentally, dislikes the way he mines her life for his novels.

Unfolding over the course of a five-day visit home, “Monkey Boy” manages to take in the entire scope of its narrator’s life: his fraught relationships with his abusive Jewish father and enigmatic Guatemalan mother; the violent bullying he experienced as a multi-hyphenate kid in a largely white New England town; and the difficulty of building a domestic life after years immersed in brutal conflict.

I was especially moved by the way Goldman writes about New York City, capturing its charm without ever romanticizing it. “Clinton Street in the snow looked like a long, straight logging road through a frozen forest, snow-piled branches, blanketed parked cars and trash cans, the occasional taxi rumbling past like a Red Army tank,” Goldberg observes of the Brooklyn neighborhood where he settles. Such sentences give off Nora Ephron vibes, but this is no rom-com metropolis. Discussing the gentrification that threatens his friends and students, Goldberg remarks on the coffee shop hipsters “staring out from behind their eyeglasses at the street that one day will be all theirs.” This quietly powerful life story transcends the usual cliches about autofiction.

If you’ve ever observed that Jews are underrepresented in the world of romance novels, you need a copy of Jean Meltzer’s debut, stat. In “The Matzah Ball,” Shabbat dinners last for hours, inspirational quotes come straight from the Talmud, big noses are hawt, and love interests are described with such gemlike phrases as “Semitic Adonis” and “kosher stud-muffin.”

Oh — and besides the many hat tips to American Jewish culture, there’s also a plot. Rachel Rubenstein-Greenblatt writes bestselling Christmas-themed romance novels. But she’s spent years hiding her job from her parents, a rabbi of Jonathan Sacks-esque eminence and a doctor famous for hosting the aforementioned Shabbat dinners. When her editor demands a Hanukkah romance, she’s forced to call on her one-time summer camp nemesis (yes, the stud muffin in question) for research help. Will an eight-day détente have them falling in love? You probably already know the answer to that question.

“The Matzah Ball” was a fall release, but there’s every reason to read it over winter break. It’s about Hanukkah. It’s about Christmas. And it’s about Jews who have some affinity for both holidays, whether they come from interfaith families or just think Christmas carols are catchy. I won’t tell you exactly what goes down at the end of the novel, but I can reveal that Rachel goes public with her Christmas obsession — and realizes it doesn’t make her any less of a good Jew.

We are heading into months of unremittingly dreary weather, which means our meals need to be frequent and excellent. You do not want to be without Laurie Colwin’s essays at this critical time. A prolific novelist and food writer known for her chatty columns in Gourmet magazine, Colwin died before her time in 1992. This collection was published soon after, and got a glamorous reissue this year. In these essays, many of which are punctuated with brief, breezy recipes, Colwin expresses an opinion on pretty much every culinary topic. For New Year’s Eve dinner, one should serve broiled salmon and an elegant rice pudding, nothing more. Jet lag is best soothed by a ham sandwich and a few spicy pickles. Any chicken worth eating must be slow-roasted.

Colwin marries a 1950s palate (one essay is called “Desserts That Quiver”) with a laissez-faire attitude towards cooking and eating that feels native to her own post-hippie milieu. “I am not terribly ashamed to reveal that I use canned broth,” she writes at one point, seeming to think herself quite blasphemous. Other essays involve hangovers cured by veal medallions and city kitchens so tiny that dishes must be washed in the bathtub.

The best thing about “More Home Cooking” is that Colwin doesn’t judge: She’s equally happy to indulge in scalloped potatoes or whip up black bean soup for the demanding vegetarians in her life. (OK, maybe she judges a little.) You may not be scampering off to bake your own flatbreads at the end of this book; not even Colwin can pretend it’s an easy task. But no matter what you’re making, you’ll glean enough entertaining tips to serve in style — salad after the entrée, anyone?

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