Some days, I grab my copy of Julia Child’s My Life in France and carry it around with me, the way a child carries a blankey or a beloved stuffed animal. Certain passages, which have been marked since the first time I read the book many years ago, speak to me over and over again, still. I have taken cooking classes in Italy and France; I have studied garden design with designers from England; I’ve enjoyed an endless stream of course work with American professors and teachers. But when I’m alone in my home or studio, experimenting and failing, wondering what I’m doing or why–Julia laughs with me. Even she was ignored and disregarded. Even she felt insecure and unfulfilled. Best of all, even she loved the world and her husband–rapturously.

I remember a journey to Normandy, France. We had arrived from Paris, exhausted. Our luggage had been lost, and our attempts to find our way out of the city and onto a roadway toward Normandy had been disastrous. Desperate, we tossed our son and his rudimentary high-school French into a bar with orders to get help. It worked. Finally, we landed at our French-style B&B, well past midnight. After settling the kids into their bedrooms, we asked Francoise, our host, if by any chance there was somewhere to get something to eat. We probably should have gone to bed, but we were in France! And we were in love! And our children were safe and sound.

Francoise said to drive down the road, count past two villages, and at the third village, there might be a small restaurant still open. We traveled out into the dark, unfamiliar land and were so surprised to find that, indeed, there were three villages to count. At the third one–a tiny, lighted restaurant awaited. Never in my life have I tasted such savory escargot.

Julia Child called France her spiritual homeland. I read her writings and though they are not what one might call literary masterpieces, who could ever care? She writes from the heart, and to the heart, with passion. She uses accessible language. Here follows a random collage of Julia’s writings from My Life in France–one of my favorite storybooks on the art of living. 

*****

“I knew I didn’t want to be a standard housewife, or a corporate woman, but I wasn’t sure what I DID want to be.”

“In preparation for living with a new husband, I’d decided I better learn how to cook. Before our wedding, I took a bride-to-be’s cooking course from two Englishwomen in Los Angeles, who taught me to make things like pancakes. But the first meal I ever cooked for Paul was a bit more ambitious: brains simmered in red wine! I’m not quite sure why I picked that particular dish, other than that it sounded exotic and would be a fun way to impress my new husband. The results were, alas, messy to look at and not very good to eat. In fact, the dinner was a disaster. Deep down, I was annoyed with myself, and I grew more determined than ever to learn how to cook well.”

“France was a misty abstraction for me, a land I had long imagined but had no real sense of. I had reason to be suspicious of it. In Pasadena, California, where I was raised, the idea of France was that of a nation of icky-picky people where the women were all dainty, exquisitely coiffed, nasty little creatures and the men dandies who twirled their mustaches, pinched girls, and schemed against American rubes. I was a six-foot-two-inch, thirty-six-year-old, rather loud and unserious Californian.”

“Our ship entered Le Havre Harbor slowly. We could see giant cranes, piles of brick, bombed-out empty spaces left over from the war….We went ashore….The Norman countryside struck me…each little town had a distinct character, though many were still scarred from the war…hundreds of bicycles…old men driving horses-and-buggies…little boys wearing wooden shoes…fields intensely cultivated…Oh, la belle France–without knowing it, I was already falling in love!”

“The Guide Michelin directed us to Restaurant La Couronne, in Rouen, which had been built in 1345 in a medieval quarter-timbered house. I wondered if I looked chic enough, or if I would be able to communicate, and that the waiters would look down their long Gallic noses at us Yankee tourists…It was warm inside…Neither humble nor luxurious…The other customers were all French and I noticed that they were treated with exactly the same courtesy as we were….I heard businessmen speaking with waiters…I asked Paul what they were saying…He said, ‘The waiter is telling them about the chicken. How it was raised, how it will be cooked, which wines go best with it.’ Wine? I said. At lunch? Paul explained to me that in France, good cooking was regarded as a combination of national sport and high art, and wine was always served with lunch and dinner.”

“November, 1949, marked our one-year anniversary in Paris…I was bothered by my lack of emotional and intellectual development. I was not as quick and confident and verbally adept as I aspired to be….When we got into discussions about the global economy, I got my foot in my backside and ended up feeling confused and defensive. My positions on important questions–Is the Marshall Plan effectively reviving France? Should there be a European Union? Will socialism take hold in Britain? were revealed to be emotions masquerading as ideas. This would not do!”

“Upon reflection, I decided I had three main weaknesses: I was confused (evidenced by lack of facts, an inability to coordinate my thoughts, and an inability to verbalize my ideas); I had a lack of confidence, which caused me to back down from forcefully stated positions; and I was overly emotional at the expense of careful, “scientific” thought. I was thirty-seven years old and still discovering who I was.”

“Of course, I made many boo-boos. At first this broke my heart, but then I came to understand that learning how to fix one’s mistakes, or live with them, was an important part of becoming a cook. I was beginning to feel la cuisine bourgeoise in my hands, my stomach, my soul.”

“When I wasn’t at school, I was experimenting at home, and became a bit of a Mad Scientist. I did hours of research on how to make mayonnaise, for instance, and although no one else seemed to care about it, I thought it was utterly fascinating….the mayo suddenly became a terrible struggle…it wouldn’t behave…I finally got the upper hand by studying each step from the beginning and writing it all down. By the end of my research, I believe, I had written more on the subject of mayonnaise than anyone in history. I made so much mayonnaise that Paul and I could hardly bear to eat it anymore, and I took to dumping my test batches down the toilet. What a shame. But in this way I had finally discovered a foolproof recipe, which was a glory!”

“I proudly typed it up and sent it off to friends and family in the States, and asked them to test it and send me their comments. ALL I RECEIVED IN RESPONSE WAS A YAWNING SILENCE. Hm! I had a great many things to say about sauces as well, but if no one cared to hear my insights, then what was the use of throwing perfectly good bernaise and gribiche down a well?”

“I was miffed, but not deterred. Onward I plunged.”

“And so began the Great French Bread Experiment, one of the most difficult, elaborate, frustrating, and satisfying challenges I have ever undertaken…It would eventually take us two years and something like 284 pounds of flour to try out all the home-style recipes for French bread we could find…I didn’t care if anyone else was interested…I was simply fascinated by bread and was determined to learn how to bake it for myself. You have to do it and do it, until you get it right.”

*****

And here is a picture of Julia, from the book, having a smoke: