Forget the marriage plot; 26-year-old Warner is after a plot of land. She buys a century-old triple-decker house in Providence's Federal Hill neighborhood, known for its Italian American community and its drug-addled ne'er-do-wells. In this ebullient memoir, she excavates the experiences of being landlady to that "needy bitch" of a house—plus tenants who "break bathtubs with sledgehammers," the permeating smell of reefer and sounds of Black Sabbath, and a late-night near debacle involving burnt toast.
— Claire Luchette
