Julia and I Get Acquainted

I saw the movie Julie & Julia when it opened. Not because I'm a huge fan of either woman in real life nor their actress portrayers Amy Adams and Meryl Streep, but because I am a huge fan of the REAL star of the show: food. (So is my food baby. And my food baby's BFF, movie theater popcorn.)


The movie was great. The featured food, divine. I give the film a glowing recommendation on all counts... Including the subliminal ones.

When I went into the movie, I didn't know what beef bourguignon was. When I left the movie, I immediately needed to high-tail it to France, rent a small villa, and peruse local farmers' markets in flouncy skirts and designer ballet flats to purchase fresh baguettes and the ingredients to make said beef dish.

But the airport is so far from the theater.

Instead, I high-tailed it to Costco to purchase Julia Child's magnum opus, "Mastering the Art of French Cooking," and the ingredients-- as many as I could get. (It turns out beef bourguignon takes things that Costco, for all of its wonder and glory, can not provide. Like tiny pearl onions. Fresh bay leaves. Bacon rind. The patience of a saint.)

It also turns out beef bourguignon is a hearty beef stew that bakes for hours in a hot, hot oven. And it was July. But that's OK, because as any seasoned Californian knows, July is not July in Monterey. It's November. Except for the particular weekend in July when I decided to try this feat magnifique. Then it decided to be July.

Undaunted by the heat, we forged ahead with the beef bourguignon: my sister-in-law Amie, Julia Childs and I. Once all the ingredients were gathered, obtained from no fewer than three separate stores, (and never actually getting the bacon rind) we were ready to cook.

I'll spare you the gory details (and between Amie's burnt finger and my sliced thumb-- "I'm not an onion!" it cried-- believe you me, things got gory.)

Suffice it to say, after the braising and the browning and the boiling and the baking and the bundles of herbs (meant to be in cheesecloth but wrapped instead in medical gauze tied closed with un-waxed, unflavored dental floss--improvisation, mon petites! totally mcgyver!) the stew came to be. And, let the record state, it was good. Really, really good. But not I-might-die-if-I-don't-immediately-hook-myself-to-an-IV-of-this good. Which is really the only kind of good that makes all those hours of hot, choppy, wine-soaked, greasy, back-aching, what-do-you-mean-that-was-the-last-of-the-thyme-we-need-it-for-the-pearl-onions-right-now-and-there's-no-time-for-finding-more-thyme labor worth it, I'm afraid.

But still, even on a hot summer day in July, some fresh French bread and a big bowl of steaming, hearty, punch-drunk-with-rich-flavor beef bourguignon is, surprisingly, a good way to end the day. But then again, maybe that's just what the subliminal messages from the movie would have you believe. Regardless, there will be more adventures with "Mastering the Art of French Cooking," mon petites, as I find it-- and many of the recipes within-- fantastically accessible for those of us still finding our way around a kitchen. Flouncy skirts for French farmers' markets and villas, however, remain elusive. Or just subliminal, perhaps.