I read mostly fiction growing up, but occasionally dabbled in nonfiction. The first nonfiction book I remember reading was a book about making chocolate. I loved that book. It covered everything from growing cacao trees to the finished product, ready to devour. I mean, eat daintily, or something. It was just so cool to learn where chocolate came from and the long process of turning it into the delicious treat that I love. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the title. Seriously – if anyone has amazing google-fu, and can figure it out, you win my undying gratitude.
After that, it was awhile before I remember delving back into non-fiction. I looked to books as an escape, and I associated non-fiction with dry reality. I honestly can’t remember when I started reading nonfiction again – maybe in college? It was in high school or college when my dad finally convinced me to read “The Millionaire Next Door.” (He certainly has high hopes.)
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