I have been reading A Cup of Jo for many years now, and almost always with a constant low level irritation. I think I can suddenly hazard a guess of why it irritates me and why I still go back...
it is reminiscent of the English authors I used to read as a child, where the coloured-skinned experience was as vivid as a city born and bred walking thru a national park... where Fatty put a towel on his head to disguise as an Indian, where, and I still can't believe it, when a person is dark it is their hair they are talking about! It is only when I was reading Mary Robinette Kowal that I realised that London, even at that time, was far more cosmopolitan than anything I have ever read from that time! Conan Doyle, PG Wodehouse, Agatha Christie. Enid Blyton, of course, was the worst!
So while Obama's family (or more precisely, his mother's family) looks like a UN council, Cup of Jo, even with a famous Indian-origin brother-in-law is far more reminiscent of books coming out of regency England with even the same interest in being French.
It is a blog that is at once comforting, as it reminds me of a childhood that had unlimited optimism, and also white washes me out of the world. I am sure I deserve better!