Julie & Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen by Julie Powell

Reviewed by Gerti

I love cooking. I also love cookbooks, since I’m not one of those “whip it up based on what’s in the frig” types of cooks. But my personal “cookbook God” is James Beard, not Julia Child. FYI James was actually the first to have a cooking show on TV, but Julia is the one who is best remembered, mainly because of the hilarious skits lampooning her voice and cooking skills on Saturday Night Live.

Perhaps my feelings would have been different if my name was Julia. That connection is why Julie Powell, author of this autobiographical book, always related to the overly tall woman who co-authored “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” so long ago. I saw the movie when it came out and found it amusing, even if I didn’t like the salty language (I know. What a prude!) so it seemed natural when I found the book to read it.

I really enjoyed Powell’s story of how she was drifting in her life, approaching a milestone age and feeling like a stranger in her own life as a government worker in New York City. Her writing is generally smart, and her stories of wrestling with lobsters and cooking entrails are classic. You could almost see Lucille Ball trying to master the art of French cooking! But again, I found her use of expletives a little unnecessary, even while I appreciated her often clever turns of phrase. I liked her more as an innocent, both in the ways of cooking all the recipes in Child’s magnum opus, and in life itself, than as the jaded, opinionated sailor-mouth she sometimes becomes.

Her cast of supporting characters in her life is also amusing, but I am frequently appalled when she describes the state of her kitchen (filthy) and hold my breath each time she has people come eat her food. I’m pleased that her blog worked out for her, and landed her a career as a writer, and I enjoy the snippets of letters from Julia Child to her husband Paul (and his letters) which pepper the book. It is amusing that the real Julia Child also had a “wild child” streak in her. What I find sad is that Julia Child did not approve of the writer’s food blog, and what a major impact that had on Julie Powell. I like to think it’s because Julia Child was too old to appreciate what it all meant, and suffered from “snarky senility” rather than true disapproval of the young woman’s culinary tribute.

The book – if you can stand the “F-bombs” – is delightful, kind of like eating chocolate mousse even though you know it is terrible for your health. At least a third of the pages in my personal copy have dog-ears because I loved where Powell displayed her self-deprecating sassiness and gift for an artfully turned phrase. I also loved that she used the original French names of the dishes, so it was an educational journey as well, since cooking from the cookbook itself sounds like skiing uphill to me. I will stick with Beard when I want a gourmet meal, but will keep an eye peeled for Powell’s next literary offering.