On the inside flap of the much awaited book Julie & Julia. 365 days, 524 recipes, 1 tiny apartment kitchen: How One Girl Risked Her Marriage, Her Job, and Her Sanity to Master the Art of Living it reads:
"On a visit to her childhood home in Texas, Julie Powell pulls her mother's battered copy of Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking off the bookshelf. And the book calls out to her."
A frisson ran through my body when I read that. I have been looking forward to reading this book for ages. It started as a blog and chronicles a year spent making every damn recipe in Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Every one, in a year's time. That means tracking down obscure ingredients (sweetbreads, calves brains) and navigating unknown culinary techniques in search of...well, in search of what? That's what I've been dying to find out.
But back to my frisson: I had not planned on going into the bookstore today, but as I walked back home from an errand far too frivolous to mention here, something -- Something -- called to me and unexpectedly, whimsically (or so it seemed...) ushered me into the store. Was it Fate? (And was it Fate who also called to me yesterday, and the day before, and Saturday and several times last week? Of course it was. Fate and I regularly connect in the bookstore. Hey, it's better than a sleazy bar.)
Anyway, the book is here. I advise all of you to run out and buy it, even those among you who don't know what a sauce béarnaise is or who hate hardbacks because they're heavy and the cover always slips off and falls down behind the bed and gives you a crick in your back as you crane your neck and left arm to reach back for it (or maybe that's just me?). Without having read it, I have Faith that it's gonna be good. How could anything with a first chapter entitled "The Road to Hell is Paved with Leeks and Potatoes" not be?
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