In memoriam Julia Child, 1912—2004

Julia Child died today. I never met her, never went to a book-signing. But she’s been a part of my daily life every day for nearly thirty years.

Thirty years ago I’d been cooking for quite a while but was a rather haphazard cook. I knew old family recipes. I’d picked up cookbooks along the way and made some recipes from the Joy of Cooking and James Beard’s Casserole Cookbook and The Galloping Gourmet Cookbook and maybe a few others. I’d worked as a short-order cook.

But I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to do better, know more. So I concocted a plan that on retrospect was quite mad. You will remember that this was the heyday of Julia Child’s TV program, The French Chef (at least in re-runs on public television). So I bought a copy of Julia, Louisette Betholle, and Simone Beck’s cookbook Mastering the Art of French Cooking. And I made every recipe. Every recipe. My roommate had carbonnade à la flamande, fonds d’artichauts au gratin, and poulet poele a l’estragon. Dates were treated to duck a l’orange, quenelles du poisson, or lobster a l’americaine. Friends were feasted on coq au vin or gigot en chevreuil (leg of lamb marinated in red wine).

Pot au feu for fifty in my church group? No problem. Check. Cassoulet for two hundred? No problem. Check. Sauces, soups, fish, poultry, meat, vegetables, desserts. Check. Bake, boil, stew, saute. Check. I only gave myself a dispensation for unobtainable or ridiculously expensive ingredients.

Three years later I was done (both volumes). And I was a French cook. And the skills that I’d picked up in making dishes I would never have imagined making have stayed with me and informed all of my cooking ever since. So a good deal of what I am (both literally and figuratively) I owe to Julia. I think of her often, particularly when I’m making dinner for my wife and me but most especially when I cook for friends and family.

Rest in peace, Julia. Bon appetit!