Julie & Julia & Jane

Yesterday I saw Julie & Julia—the movie, not the people. I wasn’t sure it would be my cup of tea. Julie was a cute young woman worried about turning 30. 30! Need I say more? And I always considered Julia somewhat of a food snob. I based this notion on her insistence to use real butter and spices I’d never heard of.

I doubted I’d connect with Julia, as I do not claim to be a French chef. Or a French chef in the making. I don’t claim to be related to Chef Boyardee. As a cook I’ve had more years experience in the food preparation department than I care to admit—opening boxes, cans and the like. I can dip a spoon into a pot, take a sip, close my eyes, and smack my lips with the best of them, but my experience with cuisine, I must admit is nearly nonexistent.

I’ve seen clips of Julia on TV, but that as close as Julia and I have come. I don’t own her cookbook nor have never glanced through its pages at the bookstore. I feel much more comfortable with Betty Crocker. I’ve never seen a box with Julia’s name on the label in the Hamburger Helper section of the grocery. My limited encounters with Julia make me hungry, but have never, ever make me want to cook.

For these reasons, I was hesitant to attend this movie. I imagined the theater filled with chefs from area restaurants. Or worse yet, those dreadful food snobs who claim real Parmesan cheese does not come in a round green container.

I considered buying one of those fluffy white hats to wear, but thought better of it fearing it might block the view of a devoted Julia fan. I did, however, stop at the Dollar Store to pick up a whisk to tuck into my purse in case anyone questioned my right to be there. The whisk and I are no longer friends, as it became tangled with my keys and caused me to miss most of the previews.

I settled into my seat observing my fellow moviegoers. Comparing the audience to the boef bourguignon (stew) Julie prepared, the women were the meat. The few gentlemen were the parsley flakes she sprinkled on top. It may not have been parsley, but you get the idea. Take it from me, it’s very difficult to take notes in the dark; add to that the saliva dropping onto the paper and it’s nearly impossible. Rest assured, I saw no white coats or puffy hats so I felt safe.

For nearly two hours, I watched Julia dice mounds and mounds of onions (it’s such a shame they didn’t have those little frozen packs in those days), create culinary masterpiece after culinary masterpiece, and slather butter on anything that didn’t move. She used so much butter and it looked so good, at one point I considered storming the popcorn station just to get a butter fix.

I left the theater with an entirely new impression of Julia. She was no food snob. She was the goddess of the kitchen. I’d follow her anywhere. I’d learn to cook like her even if it meant doubling my husband’s cholesterol medication.

When I got home I decided to turn my kitchen into Julia’s. I hung my pots and pans on the wall. They fell to the floor as the 41-year-old handles dislodged themselves from the cookware. I’d go a gourmet shop to buy new.

I searched E-Bay for cookbooks with Julia’s name on it. I pledged ten dollars more than the current bids. I offered to pay for next-day shipping. No price was too high.

Until I could get my hands on those books, I’d have to settle for what I could find online. My googling efforts netted me some of Julia’s favorites. Vichyssoise! I’d heard of that dish. It sounded so, so French. And delicious. Then I read the English translation—Chilled Leek and Potato Soup.

Maybe I’d try her Deluxe Chicken Salad. If Kroger sells chicken salad in the deli, how difficult could Julia’s be? Dear Julia’s called for eleven (11!) ingredients, one of them being excellent light olive oil. I thought the stuff I had on hand was pretty good, but would Julia really rate it as excellent? Especially since the expiration date had passed two years ago. Besides, I had long ago instituted a 5-ingredient limit in my kitchen. I wasn’t ready to break it yet, not even for Julia.

I moved on to Julia's Braised Whole Fillet of Salmon. A good healthy dish. High in those fish oils Dr. Oz raves about. The instructions covered my computer screen three times.

I rethought this French cooking thing. Surely I missed the warning posted at the start of the movie: Do not try this at home. If it hadn’t been there, I’d contact Nora Ephron and suggest it. Meanwhile, I made reservations at the little French Restaurant in Cincinnati and prayed that someone would outbid me on E-Bay.

Dinner was tres fantastique.

As Julia would say, “Bon Apetit!”