Happy 100th Birthday Week, Julia Childs. She inspired generations to get out their whisks and dive into cooking. And continues to do so…
Since every food writer is paying homage to what she taught them this week, I figured I’d joing the fray. For me, Julia was so much more than a television chef. She was an iconic woman who used her wit, intelligence and humor to entertain, rather than relying on surface beauty to get her point across. Something that often seems missing on television. Julia never shied away from speaking plainly, making a faux pas or expressing herself as well, herself. Instead, she embraced all that life had to offer without reservation or fear of being different.
What a lady.
So enjoy Julia Remixed: Give it a sec…it gets even more spectacular as you go.
What’s your Julia memory?
PS: This is pretty great, too. Happy little trees.
It was around 1973 when I was twenty-something and living in Boston, and where there was a young woman I really wanted to impress by preparing a fine meal. This young Casanova had a killer recipe (clipped from a newspaper, which I still have!) that used ground lamb as the main ingredient, but it was winter and none was to be found. Finally, someone at Haymarket directed me to a place in the North End. In the little Italian butcher shop the ceiling was covered with hanging cured meats and wall shelves were stacked with paper-wrapped roasts and cutlets, presumably waiting for pickup. There was no glass display counter, just an elderly man with a butcher block, endlessly whacking and chopping. I told him what I wanted, then sat on a folding chair against the wall, facing him. There were a few elderly women already waiting in other chairs, never saying a word. There was no heat except for a Franklin stove near the butcher. Occasionally, he would flick a bit of meat or fat off the block toward the stove, and one of several kittens would dart out from under the stove to claim the treat. It was all like a meaty version of Geppetto’s workshop, in a Kafka-esque way. Eventually this very tall, middle-aged woman entered and whispered to the butcher, then took the seat next to me. Eventually we began speaking, probably about the kitten’s antics, and she asked what I was buying. When I mentioned lamb, that was that. For the next ten (20? 30? 40?) minutes, I had a personal audience with Julia Child extolling the infinite glories of lamb. Her remarkable voice would grow quite loud at times, recalling a special meal (yet the stoic row of the elderlies never once looked our way). I fidgeted because I had no idea who she was, as well as being otherwise ignorant, rude, and immature. I assumed she was nuts, or at best a poor old soul drowning in her memories. When my order was ready, I brusquely said goodbye and left. Months later, I was at a party where my friends and I were watching some special program on WGBH, the Boston PBS TV station. On came a pledge break with a celeb guest, and I recognized that voice immediately. “Hey, that’s the crazy lady from the butcher shop!” I blurted out. A dozen eyes turned towards me. In the distance, loudly a pin dropped.
Brilliant and wonderful story and often how we perceive things and learn. I bet you can still smell the shop as well as hear dear Julia waxing poetic 🙂
It was around 1973 when I was twenty-something and living in Boston, and where there was a young woman I really wanted to impress by preparing a fine meal. This young Casanova had a killer recipe (clipped from a newspaper, which I still have!) that used ground lamb as the main ingredient, but it was winter and none was to be found. Finally, someone at Haymarket directed me to a place in the North End. In the little Italian butcher shop the ceiling was covered with hanging cured meats and wall shelves were stacked with paper-wrapped roasts and cutlets, presumably waiting for pickup. There was no glass display counter, just an elderly man with a butcher block, endlessly whacking and chopping. I told him what I wanted, then sat on a folding chair against the wall, facing him. There were a few elderly women already waiting in other chairs, never saying a word. There was no heat except for a Franklin stove near the butcher. Occasionally, he would flick a bit of meat or fat off the block toward the stove, and one of several kittens would dart out from under the stove to claim the treat. It was all like a meaty version of Geppetto’s workshop, in a Kafka-esque way. Eventually this very tall, middle-aged woman entered and whispered to the butcher, then took the seat next to me. Eventually we began speaking, probably about the kitten’s antics, and she asked what I was buying. When I mentioned lamb, that was that. For the next ten (20? 30? 40?) minutes, I had a personal audience with Julia Child extolling the infinite glories of lamb. Her remarkable voice would grow quite loud at times, recalling a special meal (yet the stoic row of the elderlies never once looked our way). I fidgeted because I had no idea who she was, as well as being otherwise ignorant, rude, and immature. I assumed she was nuts, or at best a poor old soul drowning in her memories. When my order was ready, I brusquely said goodbye and left. Months later, I was at a party where my friends and I were watching some special program on WGBH, the Boston PBS TV station. On came a pledge break with a celeb guest, and I recognized that voice immediately. “Hey, that’s the crazy lady from the butcher shop!” I blurted out. A dozen eyes turned towards me. In the distance, loudly a pin dropped.
Brilliant and wonderful story and often how we perceive things and learn. I bet you can still smell the shop as well as hear dear Julia waxing poetic 🙂