Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Julia Child would have been one hundred years old today

Makes me want to slam a whole chicken on the counter and start hacking it apart.  The only chicken I have, unfortunately, is a nice pair of organic boneless chicken breasts.  So, in acknowledgment, I just bought her book.  My Life In France is the name, I'm thinking.

Me?  I always liked Ms. Child.  Not so much Jaques Pepin, although he wrote a lovely remembrance of her in the Times.

When you say 'not so much Jaques Pepin' do you mean Pepin didn't like Child, or you didn't like Pepin?
It's not clear, is it?
No.
I meant I didn't--don't--like Pepin.
Why?
Because he and I once got into a shouting match at a restaurant called Hubert's.  He was the guest chef and I was the waiter.  Guess who got fired.
Wow.
Maybe it's for the best.  
Maybe.

Anyway, that was a long time ago.  And one shouldn't hold grudges.  But I'm still a little pissed, and my simmering anger is only exacerbated by staring at the red copy just above and wishing it was indented as a block.

My Life in France, as I understand it, is one of the primary sources for Julia and Julia--a movie I know I'm going to love if I ever get around to seeing it.  I'm also hoping it will bear some resemblance to A Year in Provence, which was charming.

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