Dear Julia Child,
I did not have the joy of knowing who or what you were until you were manifested in the visions of Julie Powell, courtesy of her blog turned book turned movie. I love the manifested version of you. I don’t actually know whether or not your love story was as beautiful as Julie Powell imagined it, but it doesn’t matter. Because I really enjoyed her movie about her Julia Child obsession.
Julie Powell is one of my heroes, and as you were one of hers, by proxy you become one of mine. I love to cook, so this is not such a far stretch. In fact, just last week, I assisted my roommate in a French feast for three, including endive in puff pastry, croque madames, a cheese platter, and a delightful salad. Of course, I mostly did the endive. Man, the French enjoy butter.
Yes, the unseen part of that stick of butter is all in the food, along with at least another stick. And no, we didn’t die of clogged arteries. Yet.
I remember watching the Julie & Julia movie, and thinking to myself that you, Julia Child, led a pretty interesting life, and of course Stanley Tucci made me love you. So between Julie Powell’s writing and Stanley Tucci’s acting, Julia Child rocked my world.
So I looked you up. A writer and a food lover, I cannot help respect and appreciate you for what you were. An inspiration. OK, so maybe the food sanitation police weren’t down with your cleanliness. And maybe the fat content in your food wasn’t low. But you were funny. You were sassy. And you loved what you did.
That’s all one can hope for.