Julie and Julia (the book)

Jackie ♦ December 28, 2008 ♦ 1 Comment

Julie and Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously came out a few years ago, along with a lot of other blogs-to-books, and more than a few “spend a year doing XYZ” books. I chose it as one of my Christmas books this year, and am so glad I did– if you’re looking for a foul-mouthed and witty read from an author who knows both how to cook calves’ brains and talk about finding your path without being schmaltzy, then you’ll enjoy it just as much as I did.

When Julie Powell began her quest to cook her way through Mastering The Art of French Cooking, Volume One, she was not a food writer, a chef, or even a waitress/freelancer, but instead a frustrated government secretary in a “crappy outerborough kitchen” who was turning thirty and dissatisfied with her life. On her husband Eric’s suggestion, she started a blog to chronicle her adventure with Julia Child, and by the end of the year, she had succeeded in her quest, accumulated thousands of “bleaders” (blog readers), been interviewed by the print and TV media and become a writer, enabling her to quit her secretary job and spend the day in her pajamas, writing.

How did she do it? Well, first, she’s a great writer, which many bloggers are and even more are not. She’s witty, self-deprecating, and foul-mouthed– in other words, her voice is one you’d like to hang out with, even if it meant eating calves’ hooves in aspic. But actually making those hooves in aspic? Why would anyone attempt that? For Powell, it becomes a mission, a passion, that saves her from the rut she’s found herself in, a journey that parallels the one Child herself began on when she first started cooking, in her mid-thirties in Paris as a new wife who found herself somewhat adrift.

For me, the book was also fascinating because so much of the kind of cooking she does is terribly intimidating for me. There’s a reason I’m a much better baker than cook, and that I am the mistress of the brunch but only recently roasted my first chicken. When faced with mild piles of flour and sugar, I feel confident, but cracking open a cow’s bone to extract the marrow inside? There’s something so primeval about real cooking, literally getting your hands dirty with the guts and muscles and tendons of a slaughtered animal, and Powell does a great job of showing us how attacking all those animal carcasses and rendering them into fantastic meals can be a life-altering experience, even if along the way you find yourself weeping on the kitchen floor as gelee slowly burns on the stovetop behind you.

I have certainly not been inspired to imitate Powell’s year-long odyssey, but reading the book has inspired me to try and tackle some of the bloodier, more intimidating sections of the cookbooks I already own (like The Gourmet Cookbook I bought, blogged, looked through and set aside after trying only a few vegetable recipes). I’m not looking for passion, like she was (for now, I’m entirely content with all aspects of my life), but who couldn’t use a boost of confidence, of courage? Who wouldn’t like to tackle a tenderloin or pile of chops, transform it into a wonderful savory feast, and set it in front of her guests, aglow with triumph? I think more complicated non-baking recipes, and more dinner parties, are on my list of resolutions for 2009, for sure.

Julie Powell would find a better and funnier way to say this, but one of the great lessons I took from Julie and Julia is that even though it may seem impossible, and everyone around you might think you’re crazy, many of life’s great moments come from getting your hands dirty, from cracking that lobster’s back wide open and digging through the guts and shit to find the sweet meat inside– that there is no better bite to be had than one you slaved over yourself, in your own crappy kitchen, with courage, lots of butter and heavy cream, and your own two hands.