Julie, Julia & Me

I just came home from seeing the new movie with Merle Streep and Amy Adams called "Julie & Julia", a glimpse at the parallel worlds of Julia Child and a confused young woman who had no idea what to do with her 30-something life. She embarked on a mission to prepare all of Julia Child's culinary masterpieces in the span of a year and write a blog about the process. Throughout the process, she touches on all the normal life-transition emotions, makes a mess of things and then manages to find herself in the process.

There is a scene in the movie where Julie celebrates the end of her mission on a NYC rooftop illuminated by strings of light-bulbs, serving up an eclectic mix of friends. She comes out with the crowning piece of her year's education and efforts. This was the piece she dreaded over the span of her project, the boned duck, and it was prepared to perfection. It even looked like the cookbook picture. The joy was not in that, though. The joy was in her serving it.

My own little string of light bulbs went off. When I, too, am empty and deeply hungry in my soul, it is not just myself that I need to feed. To really feed the hunger is to make a platter full of something to eat and something to share. Single servings just don't satisfy enough.

It made me remember one of my mom's "Rules for Happy Life" which, no surprise, had a food-based theme at the heart of it. She used to say that when preparing a meal, it was best to triple the recipes whenever I could: one third for our own dinner, one third to save a little for tomorrow and a spare third to be ready to share with someone in need. This rule was cardinal when it came to making soup, because someone always needed a little of that, it seemed. It was a kind of plasma enhancer, I now believe. I guess that's why to this day I always make way too much soup. Maybe I just forget to share that other third.

My mother found her bliss in the kitchen. Often she would be deep inside her own thoughts when she chopped away, clanking bowls and pots and pans and slamming cabinet doors. She sang and hummed and I believe that she loved the stirring and blending. I know that most of all, she must have envisioned the looks and sounds of all of us enjoying what she made. It had to be why she was so happy. She was always working, but her passion was serving it. Then she was done.

I am home a lot in my kitchen with Emily and she has begun to show an interest in this food-world, too. I watch her put together a signature panini sandwich and make one for her daddy ... I believe she enjoys the one she didn't eat herself more. I watch her present it to him (or her friends who visit) and wait for the reaction. She doesn't even know it yet, but the gears are turning in her head. I could only hope for her to have a jump start in figuring out that our self-serve world is empty and devoid of soul for a reason and she can skip having to find that out the harder way.

We all need to make room in our life for just a little more whipping, kneading, blending, baking, simmering and such ... and we need the loving human contact that comes with lighting a candle in the middle of the table and enjoying these bites with the ones we love.

It worked for Julia and Julie and it seems to be working for me, too, as a matter of fact.