Pookie the Rabbit with Wings, a book from my childhood and my mother's before me. It's about a hybrid rabbit-fairy who lives in a toadstool. Like many other family books, Crabgran has kept Pookie precisely for the purpose of reading to future Crabtots. And because I knew there would be lovely old things like Pookie waiting for us on this vacation, as well as lovely new African storybooks too, I traveled light on the reading fare. Of course, I couldn't guarantee that the Brit-fairy stories of my youth or African folktales would vie with Elmo Does the Hokey Pokey and Madeline Joins the Circus, so I brought a few reserves. But I haven't needed them.

It's quite a strange feeling for Crabmommy to enjoy reading time. As I've mentioned before, after a long crabby day I frankly find storytime quite tedious, and the shorter the book the better. But this winged bunny is a character I loved as a wee lass, so when I read about Pookie now it's with the eyes of a tot.

I used to stare at this page as a kid.

Looking at this still gives me a weird entranced feeling. Say what you will about Brits but they know how to tell a kids' story. For one thing, they always fetishize food in their kiddie lit. Everyone's always eating toasted crumpets and drinking honey tea and whatnot. See here Pookie visiting his pixie friend who makes blackberry jam. Check out those "rose-petal curtains" and the "beechleaf hearthrug." So absurdly cute I could eat that page right up!

Maybe it's just been hardwired into me, but I still think this drawing style rocks much harder than any modern illustration involving collages of Manhattan or clever gobs of paint à la Eric Carle.

See Pookie holding a meeting with the woodland folk. Humans are trying to put a road through the forest! Stop those wankers, Pookie!Not to get too Proustian here, but I've often wondered if it's possible to get back the enchantment that reading held for me as a kid. No matter how much literature means to me as a grown-up, the feeling I get from it never squares with the hit I used to feel in the presence of Pookie and his ilk. Maybe neuroscience types could explain it to me. Or maybe I'm just too jaded and crabby and self-involved to lose myself properly in fiction. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that these days, when I settle down to read a nice spot of Edith Wharton, more often than not a high-pitched whine starts from somewhere beyond the bedroom door. ...

What do you think? Do you have a childhood fave that gets you this way?