The Beginning

Sunday August 9, 2009. I sat transfixed, eyes wide and riveted on the massive cinema screen. Meryl Streep took a bite of buttery fish and tossed her head back in a wild chortle. Julia Child laughed. My soul squealed in delight. This was categorically, without a doubt, my film. It was one of those films that come along so rarely, one of those whose protagonists reflect something incredibly essential within you.

I didn’t merely identify with the two main women in Julie & Julia, I felt myself fused to them. And for that hour and a half I seriously believed them both to be my cinematic and culinary soul mates: the unadulterated love of food and cooking, the contrasting banality of daily life, their secret life-sustaining dreams, and above all their hunger.

In this movie, Meryl Streep plays the famous America cook, Julia Child, who studied the length and breadth of French cuisine while living in Paris with her husband. Then she brought this seemingly unattainable refinement to Americans in her formidable work Mastering the Art of French Cooking, as well as through her TV cooking show The French Chef.

But Julia is only half of the story. The other character is a modern-day American woman who is grappling with the age-old conflict between dreams and reality. Having given up on her vision of writing with nothing but a shelved, unfinished novel, Julie now lives in a shitty little apartment in New York with her husband and cat, while slogging away daily at an unfulfilling, frankly demeaning, cubicle job.

In the end Julie is rescued by her love of cooking. She needs a project and a deadline, so she takes on the momentous challenge of cooking every one of Julia Child’s 524 recipes within one year. And, after many kitchen catastrophes, marital upheaval, and some insanely good food, she accomplishes her goal. Oh, and becomes a legitimate, celebrated writer in the process.

I once heard someone say that jealousy is nothing to be ashamed of; it simply reveals what you truly want. I like this interpretation of what I had always assumed to be a dirty emotion. And it greatly comforted me as I walked out of the cinema with my boyfriend. Because, in addition to having a new movie to add to my top ten list, and in addition to having two new fantasy soul sisters, I was wildly, stomach achingly jealous of both Julie Powell and Julia Child.

* * *

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid there’s about a 45 minute wait,” the hostess apologized. Hmmm . . . Sean and I looked at each other, sighed wistfully at the dining room—at the people crammed around little wooden tables, each laden with hot, thin-crusted and fire licked pizzas—thanked the hostess and trudged back out onto the street.

“Well,” murmured Sean, “there’s a new Thai place we could try.” So we headed down the road and ducked through a doorway into the surreal world of Long. Both famished by now, we ordered eagerly from the rather wifty waitress who glided up to our table and absentmindedly recited the specials. And then we waited for the food; reminiscing fondly together about the latest meal we’d cooked at Sean’s place.

“That chicken,” I murmured, lost for adequate words to describe the divinely barbequed wings, the sweet-spicy, subtly nuanced marinade, and the impossibly succulent flesh. “And those potatoes,” Sean added, remembering the crispy, rosemary roasted wedges, each of which gave way on the tongue to an ethereal, interior lightness.

“You know,” Sean mused, “there’s just something about good home cooking . . . you just can’t beat it.” I nodded eagerly. This was our favorite subject: the strange and inexplicable superiority of home made meals over even the most decadent, elaborate restaurant fare. But just as we were warming to the topic our entrees arrived.

I took a bite. “Oh no, murmured Sean, setting his chop sticks down, “you don’t like it do you.”

“What? I mean, well, I didn’t say anything yet,” I argued defensively.

“Yeah, well I could tell, by your face . . . .you, you made a sort of grimace.”

I sighed and poked at the noodles. "Huh, didn’t know I was so transparent. Well, to be honest no, it’s well, kinda flat, if you know what I mean." He nodded sympathetically: “It’s just like we were saying. Mine’s not that great either.” We finished hurriedly, paid the bill, and fled.

Returning to the car, we paused briefly to duck into a deli and buy some chocolate. This would serve to drown out the residue of our unfulfilling dinner and to raise our spirits. It always works. “We should cook more of our own food,” Sean said, slipping a comforting arm around my waist. “Definitely,” I agreed, “a lot more.”

* * *

And that is how I come to be embarking on this crazy adventure—tossed out to sea by a strange mixture of jealousy and desire and love. Jealousy of two semi-fictionalized female heroines, desire to apprentice myself to the craft of writing, and a deep, all consuming love of food and cooking. So, raise your glasses my friends: to a year of food, feasting, and friendship.