Bon Appetit

I just learned that Julia Child died last week. I fall pretty far short of being what is known as a "good cook", but I was always fond of her. I'm not sure if it was because my mother watched the show, or just because I enjoyed watching the lady with the funny voice, but she was a fixture of my childhood. Sure, I mostly made fun of her (and nearly wet myself when Dan Aykroyd lampooned her on SNL), but I wouldn't have paid enough attention to her to mimic her mannerisms and speech patterns if I didn't enjoy her.

As I said, I'm not much of a cook, but I think I owe some of my modest skill to her. Despite the pretentious name, The French Chef was almost like reality television, showing Julia dropping the chicken or burning the sauce, and generally assuring the audience that it was OK to screw up in the kitchen. And really, unless you have the courage to screw up, you'll never be able to get beyond reading the preparation instructions for a box of macaroni and cheese.

I admit that I haven't gotten very far beyond that. From time to time back when Andy and I were an item, I'll attempt something complicated enough to require a recipe, and it'd turn out OK, but I don't have anyone to do that kind of cooking for anymore, so mostly it's simple stuff. But when I'm chopping up a couple carrots or some onions to add to my mac and cheese, or mixing some strawberry jam into my pancake mix, in the back of my head there's a hint of a squeaky upper-class woman's voice prattling about how to get the best results from it.

Bon appetit, Julia.