Reading as competitive sport

Over the winter holidays, around the table with family, I was quizzed about my reading habits and the number of books that I read in a year. I offered an estimate of 50, and things got a little heated, with one person claiming that another relative might get through even more, and a third noting defensively that, though she read comparatively few, each was very carefully chosen and clearly remembered. 

Caught up in my own tension between quality and quantity, I was at first annoyed by the (probably unintentional) implication that my own reading is not well-chosen, and then worried that it is all a waste of time if I can't recall in great detail the plots or arguments of everything I peruse. I aim for both depth and breadth in reading, but I do read an awful lot, and some of it does -- and rightly should -- fade quickly away. When not feeling on the spot, I'm fine with this.

However, my curiosity has been piqued: As a memory exercise, I have decided to try to write every weekday in March, posting something that I remember about books read in Marches of previous years.