Julia Child was my “Big Bird” of French cooking. Just like her counterpart who lives on Sesame Street, Julia was tall, robust, and cheerful. Big Bird pranced down Sesame Street daily, dispensing wisdom to children. Julia’s route was from sink to stove to oven on the PBS kitchen set of “The French Chef.”
In her constant apron, she worked magic and turned dull ingredients into a chocolate bombe, or animal entrails into eight different pates encased together in pastry crust. She diced onions at the speed of sound with her lethal chef knives, and whacked a dead chicken in half without flinching. “Now here we have a beautiful young pullet. Look at how lovely the flesh is!” she proclaimed from the TV that barely boxed her in. Then Julia axed that carcass as she sweated under the hot studio lights. She always made a mess and rarely paused to wipe a spill. The wonders of television rendered it all clean by the next scene.
Julia’s no nonsense calm during culinary disasters, and bouts of joy when a soufflé rose, comforted me. She had the temperament of the good and solid farm women in old TV westerns. She was patient with the cooking heathen I was, and I grew up to become one of millions who loved her. Julia Child took my hand through the years, like Big Bird held children’s hands, and led me through a half hour of peace every week. The preparation of a seven page recipe looked easy. She never flaunted her talents. She shared them.
I was always sad when she took her prepared delights to a fake dining room because that meant the show was over. I wanted to climb into the TV and sit with her then. I didn’t know then that Julia Child was dangerous too. She sautéed, creamed, and sauced her way into my heart without warning that it could be less than healthy.
“Bon appetit!” she chirped, raising a crystal wine glass as cheerful eating music played and the picture faded.
