Julie and Julia Read online

  Copyright © 2005 by Julie Powell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group, USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at HachetteBookGroupUSA.com

  First eBook Edition: September 2005

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-1457-7

  Contents

  Dedication

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  DAY 1, RECIPE 1: The Road to Hell Is Paved with Leeks and Potatoes

  BEFORE THE BEGINNING: Joy of Cooking

  DAY 23, RECIPE 34: You Have to Break a Few Eggs . . .

  DAY 36, RECIPE 48: Hacking the Marrow Out of Life

  DAY 40, RECIPE 49: . . . To Make an Omelette

  DAY 42, RECIPE 53|DAY 82, RECIPE 95: Disaster/Dinner Party, Dinner Party/Disaster:

  DAY 108, RECIPE 154: The Law of Diminishing Returns

  DAY 130, RECIPE 201: They Shoot Lobsters, Don’t They?

  DAY 198, RECIPE 268: The Proof Is in the Plumbing

  DAY 221, RECIPE 330: Sweet Smell of Failure

  DAY 237, RECIPE 357: Flaming Crepes!

  DAY 340, RECIPE 465: Time to Move to Weehawken

  DAY 352, RECIPE 499: “Only in America”

  DAY 365, RECIPE 524: Simplicity Itself

  . . . Well, Not Quite

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Julia, without whom I could not have done this,

  and for Eric, without whom I could not do at all

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  For the sake of discretion, many identifying details, individuals, and events throughout this book have been altered. Only myself, my husband, and certain widely known public figures, including Julia and Paul Child, are identified by real names.

  Also, sometimes I just made stuff up.

  Case in point: the scenes from the lives of Paul Child and Julia McWilliams Child depicted throughout are purely works of imagination, inspired by events described in the journals and letters of Paul Child, the letters of Julia McWilliams, and the biography of Julia Child, Appetite for Life, by Noël Riley Fitch. I thank Ms. Riley Fitch for her fine work, and the Schlesinger Library at Harvard University for generously making Mrs. Child’s archives available to the public.

  — Julie Powell

  Thursday, October 6, 1949

  Paris

  At seven o’clock on a dreary evening in the Left Bank, Julia began roasting pigeons for the second time in her life.

  She’d roasted them the first time that morning during her first-ever cooking lesson, in a cramped basement kitchen at the Cordon Bleu cooking school at 129, rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré. Now she was roasting some more in the rented flat she shared with her husband, Paul, in the kitchen at the top of a narrow stairway in what used to be the servant quarters before the old house got divided up into apartments. The stove and counters were too short for her, like everything else in the world. Even so, she liked her kitchen at the top of the stairs better than the one at school—liked the light and air up there, liked the dumbwaiter that would carry her birds down to the dining room, liked that she could cook while her husband sat beside her at the kitchen table, keeping her company. She supposed she would get used to the counters soon enough—when you go through life as a six-foot-two-inch-tall woman, you get used to getting used to things.

  Paul was there now, snapping pictures of his wife from time to time, and finishing up a letter to his brother, Charlie. “If you could see Julie stuffing pepper and lard up the asshole of a dead pigeon,” he wrote, “you’d realize how profoundly affected she’s been already.”*

  But he hadn’t seen anything yet. His wife, Julia Child, had decided to learn to cook. She was thirty-seven years old.

  DAY 1, RECIPE 1

  The Road to Hell Is Paved with Leeks and Potatoes

  As far as I know, the only evidence supporting the theory that Julia Child first made Potage Parmentier during a bad bout of ennui is her own recipe for it. She writes that Potage Parmentier—which is just a Frenchie way of saying potato soup—“smells good, tastes good, and is simplicity itself to make.” It is the first recipe in the first book she ever wrote. She concedes that you can add carrots or broccoli or green beans if you want, but that seems beside the point, if what you’re looking for is simplicity itself.

  Simplicity itself. It sounds like poetry, doesn’t it? It sounds like just what the doctor ordered.

  It wasn’t what my doctor ordered, though. My doctor—my gynecologist, to be specific—ordered a baby.

  “There are the hormonal issues in your case, with the PCOS, you know about that already. And you are pushing thirty, after all. Look at it this way—there will never be a better time.”

  This was not the first time I’d heard this. It had been happening for a couple of years now, ever since I’d sold some of my eggs for $7,500 in order to pay off credit card debt. Actually, that was the second time I’d “donated”— a funny way of putting it, since when you wake up from the anesthesia less a few dozen ova and get dressed, there’s a check for thousands of dollars with your name on it waiting at the receptionist’s desk. The first time was five years ago, when I was twenty-four, impecunious and fancy-free. I hadn’t planned on doing it twice, but three years later I got a call from a doctor with an unidentifiable European accent who asked me if I’d be interested in flying down to Florida for a second go-round, because “our clients were very satisfied with the results of your initial donation.” Egg donation is still a new-enough technology that our slowly evolving legal and etiquette systems have not yet quite caught up; nobody knows if egg donators are going to be getting sued for child support ten years down the line or what. So discussions on the subject tend to be knotted with imprecise pronouns and euphemisms. The upshot of this phone call, though, was that there was a little me running around Tampa or somewhere, and the little me’s parents were happy enough with him or her that they wanted a matched set. The honest part of me wanted to shout, “Wait, no—when they start hitting puberty you’ll regret this!” But $7,500 is a lot of money.

  Anyway, it was not until the second harvesting (they actually call it “harvesting”; fertility clinics, it turns out, use a lot of vaguely apocalyptic terms) that I found out I had polycystic ovarian syndrome, which sounds absolutely terrifying, but apparently just meant that I was going to get hairy and fat and I’d have to take all kinds of drugs to conceive. Which means, I guess, that I haven’t heard my last of crypto-religious obstetric jargon.

  So. Ever since I was diagnosed with this PCOS, two years ago, doctors have been obsessing over my childbearing prospects. I’ve even been given the Pushing Thirty speech by my avuncular, white-haired orthopedist (what kind of twenty-nine-year-old has a herniated disk, I ask you?).

  At least my gynecologist had some kind of business in my private parts. Maybe that’s why I heroically did not start bawling immediately when he said this, as he was wiping off his speculum. Once he left, however, I did fling one of my navy faille pumps at the place where his head had been just a moment before. The heel hit the door with a thud, leaving a black scuff mark, then dropped onto the counter, where it knocked over a glass jar of cotton swabs. I scooped up all the Q-tips from the counter and the floor and started to stuff them back into the jar before realizing I’d probably gotten them all contaminated, so then I shoved them into a pile next to an apothecary jar full of fresh needles and squeezed myself back into the vintage forties suit I’d been so proud of that morning when Nate from wo
rk told me it made my waist look small while subtly eyeing my cleavage, but which on the ride from lower Manhattan to the Upper East Side on an un-air-conditioned 6 train had gotten sweatstained and rumpled. Then I slunk out of the room, fifteen-buck co-pay already in hand, the better to make my escape before anyone discovered I’d trashed the place.

  As soon as I got belowground, I knew there was a problem. Even before I reached the turnstiles, I heard a low, subterranean rumble echoing off the tiled walls, and noticed more than the usual number of aimless-looking people milling about. A tangy whiff of disgruntlement wafted on the fetid air. Every once in a great while the “announcement system” would come on and “announce” something, but none of these spatterings of word salad resulted in the arrival of a train, not for a long, long time. Along with everyone else, I leaned out over the platform edge, hoping to see the pale yellow of a train’s headlight glinting off the track, but the tunnel was black. I smelled like a rained-upon, nervous sheep. My feet, in their navy heels with the bows on the toe, were killing me, as was my back, and the platform was so crammed with people that before long I began to worry someone was going to fall off the edge onto the tracks—possibly me, or maybe the person I was going to push during my imminent psychotic break.

  But then, magically, the crowd veered away. For a split second I thought the stink coming off my suit had reached a deadly new level, but the wary, amused looks on the faces of those edging away weren’t focused on me. I followed their gaze to a plug of a woman, her head of salt-and-pepper hair shorn into the sort of crew cut they give to the mentally disabled, who had plopped down on the concrete directly behind me. I could see the whorls of her cowlick like a fingerprint, feel the tingle of invaded personal space against my shins. The woman was muttering to herself fiercely. Commuters had vacated a swath of platform all around the loon as instinctually as a herd of wildebeests evading a lioness. I was the only one stuck in the dangerous blank circle, the lost calf, the old worn-out cripple who couldn’t keep up.

  The loon started smacking her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Fuck!” she yelled. “Fuck! FUCK!”

  I couldn’t decide whether it would be safer to edge back into the crowd or freeze where I was. My breathing grew shallow as I turned my eyes blankly out across the tracks to the uptown platform, that old subway chameleon trick.

  The loon placed both palms down on the concrete in front of her and—CRACK!—smacked her forehead hard on the ground.

  This was a little much even for the surrounding crowd of New Yorkers, who of course all knew that loons and subways go together like peanut butter and chocolate. The sickening noise of skull on concrete seemed to echo in the damp air—as if she was using her specially evolved resonant brainpan as an instrument to call the crazies out from every far-underground branch of the city. Everybody flinched, glancing around nervously. With a squeak I hopped back into the multitude. The loon had a smudgy black abrasion right in the middle of her forehead, like the scuff mark my shoe had left on my gynecologist’s door, but she just kept screeching. The train pulled in, and I connived to wiggle into the car the loon wasn’t going into.

  It was only once I was in the car, squeezed in shoulder to shoulder, the lot of us hanging by one hand from the overhead bar like slaughtered cows on the trundling train, that it came to me—as if some omnipotent God of City Dwellers were whispering the truth in my ear—that the only two reasons I hadn’t joined right in with the loon with the gray crew cut, beating my head and screaming “Fuck!” in primal syncopation, were (1) I’d be embarrassed and (2) I didn’t want to get my cute vintage suit any dirtier than it already was. Performance anxiety and a dry-cleaning bill; those were the only things keeping me from stark raving lunacy.

  That’s when I started to cry. When a tear dropped onto the pages of the New York Post that the guy sitting beneath me was reading, he just blew air noisily through his nose and turned to the sports pages.

  When I got off the subway, after what seemed like years, I called Eric from a pay phone at the corner of Bay Ridge and Fourth Avenue.

  “Hey. Did you get anything for dinner?”

  Eric made that little sucking-in-through-his-teeth sound he always makes when he thinks he’s about to get in trouble. “Was I supposed to?”

  “Well, I told you I’d be late because of my doctor’s appointment —”

  “Right, right, sorry. I just, I didn’t . . . You want me to order something in, or —”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll pick up something or other.”

  “But I’m going to start packing just as soon as the NewsHour’s done, promise!”

  It was nearly eight o’clock, and the only market open in Bay Ridge was the Korean deli on the corner of Seventieth and Third. I must have looked a sight, standing around in the produce aisle in my bedraggled suit, my face tracked with mascara, staring like a catatonic. I couldn’t think of a thing that I wanted to eat. I grabbed some potatoes, a bunch of leeks, some Hotel Bar butter. I felt dazed and somehow will-less, as if I was following a shopping list someone else had made. I paid, walked out of the shop, and headed for the bus stop, but just missed the B69. There wouldn’t be another for a half hour at least, at this time of night, so I started the ten-block walk home, carrying a plastic bag bristling with spiky dark leek bouquets.

  It wasn’t until almost fifteen minutes later, as I was walking past the Catholic boys’ school on Shore Road one block over from our apartment building, that I realized that I’d managed, unconsciously, to buy exactly the ingredients for Julia Child’s Potage Parmentier.

  When I was a kid, my dad used to love to tell the story about finding five-year-old Julie curled up in the back of his copper-colored Datsun ZX immersed in a crumpled back issue of the Atlantic Monthly. He told that one to all the guys at his office, and to the friends he and my mom went out to dinner with, and to all of the family who weren’t born again and likely to disapprove. (Of the Atlantic, not Z-cars.)

  I think the point behind this was that I’d been singled out as an early entrant to the ranks of the intellectually superior. And since I was awful at ballet and tap dancing, after all, always the last one to make it up the rope in gym class, a girl neither waifish nor charming in owlish red-rimmed glasses, I took my ego-petting where I could get it. But the not-very-highbrow truth of the matter was that the reading was how I got my ya-yas out.

  For the sake of my bookish reputation I upgraded to Tolstoy and Steinbeck before I understood them, but my dark secret was that really, I preferred the junk. The Dragonriders of Pern, Flowers in the Attic, The Clan of the Cave Bear. This stuff was like my stash of Playboys under the mattress. I waited until my camp counselor left the cabin to steal the V. C. Andrews she stashed behind her box of Tampax. I nicked my mom’s Jean Auel, and had already gotten halfway through before she found out, so she could only wince and suppose there was some educational value, but no Valley of Horses for you, young lady.

  Then adolescence set in well and proper, and reading for kicks got shoved in the backseat with the old Atlantics. It had been a long time since I’d done anything with the delicious, licentious cluelessness that I used to read those books—hell, sex now wasn’t as exciting as reading about sex used to be. I guess nowadays your average fourteen-year-old Texan possesses exhaustive knowledge of the sexual uses of tongue studs, but I doubt the information excites her any more than my revelations about Neanderthal sex.

  You know what a fourteen-year-old Texan doesn’t know shit about? French food.

  A couple of weeks after my twenty-ninth birthday, in the spring of 2002, I went back to Texas to visit my parents. Actually, Eric kind of made me go.

  “You have to get out of here,” he said. The kitchen drawer that broke two weeks after we moved in, and was never satisfactorily rehabilitated, had just careened off its tracks yet again, flinging Pottery Barn silverware in all directions. I was sobbing, forks and knives glittering at my feet. Eric was holding me in one of those tight hugs like a half nelson, w
hich he does whenever he’s trying to comfort me when what he really wants to do is smack me.

  “Will you come with me?” I didn’t look up from the snot stain I was impressing upon his shirt.

  “I’m too busy at the office right now. Besides, I think it’s better if you go by yourself. Hang out with your mom. Buy some clothes. Sleep in.”

  “I have work, though.”

  “Julie, you’re a temp. What’s temping for if you can’t run off and take a break sometimes? That’s why you’re doing it, right?”

  I didn’t like to think about why I was temping. My voice went high and cracked. “Well, I can’t afford it.”

  “We can afford it. Or we can ask your parents to pay.” He grabbed my chin and lifted it up to his face. “Julie. Seriously? Go. Because I can’t live with you like this anymore.”

  So I went—my mom bought me the ticket for a late birthday present. A week later I flew into Austin, early enough to grab lunch at Poke-Jo’s.

  And then, right in the middle of my brisket sandwich and okra, less than a month after I turned twenty-nine, Mom dropped the Pushing Thirty bomb for the very first time.

  “Jesus, Mom!”

  “What?” My mother has this bright, smiling, hard tone that she always uses when she wants me to face facts. She was using it now. “All I’m saying is here you are, miserable, running away from New York, getting into a bad place with Eric, and for what? You’re getting older, you’re not taking advantage of the city, why do this to yourself?”

  This was exactly the one thing I had come to Austin to not talk about. I should have known my mother would dig in like a goddamned rat terrier.

  I had gone to New York like everybody else goes to New York—just as the essential first step for a potato destined for soup is to have its skin peeled off, the essential starting point for an aspiring actor is to move to New York. I preferred jobs that did not require auditions, which, since I neither looked like Renée Zellweger nor was a terribly good actor, proved to be a problem. Mostly what I’d done was temp, for (to name a few): the photocopier contractor for the UN; the Asian American businesses underwriting department at AIG; the vice president of a broadband technology outfit with an amazing office looking out onto the Brooklyn Bridge, which folded about two weeks after I got there; and an investment firm specializing in the money matters of nunneries. Recently, I’d started work at a government agency downtown. It looked like they were going to offer to bring me on permanently—eventually all the temp employers offered to let you go perm—and for the first time, I was considering, in a despairing sort of way, doing it. It was enough to make me suicidal even before my mom started telling me I was getting old. Mom should have known this, but instead of apologizing for her cruelty she just popped another piece of fried okra into her mouth and said, “Let’s go shopping—your clothes are just awful!”