I’m not even Julie Powell. Tried to make the husband a little French food last night and picked up a skillet handle that had just been in a 400-degree oven. I’m now typing with only seven fingers. (The other three are still attached, just not in the mood to work.)
I did love Julie and Julia, though. Violet and I went the first week it came out. She was in the “less Julie, more Julia” camp at the end. I just enjoyed the entire experience. For me, though, what’s not to like? Cooking. Writing. Mid-life. French food. Marriage. Infertility (okay, not a joyful subject but a relatable one). Publishers. Husbands in government. More French food. I enjoyed it from beginning to end. I’d even go see it again. And now I want to read Julia Child’s autobiography even though I never warmed to her on TV—the publishers should thank Meryl Streep for doing such a wonderful job.
