Aprill & Julia, (Or the joy of cooking without third-degree burns)
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It was one of those rare Fridays when I had the afternoon off. This was, of course, mostly because I secretly snuck out of work early, belly-crawling it to the time clock and then vanishing out the door ninja-style.
(Editor's note: She's completely full of it. We watched her the whole time and laughed so hard we almost wet ourselves).
With no plans in mind (and happy hour several unhappy hours away), I decided to catch a movie. "Julie & Julia" to be exact.
And thus began my love affair with Julia Child. Sitting there in the dark with my 6,000-calorie popcorn and Bucket O' Cherry Coke, she awoke something in me that I didn't even know was there.
A love of cooking.
Being a 20-something with the domestic skills of a drunken hippo, I'd never really known much about the woman who changed the face of American cooking, let alone cooking itself. I was a "career" woman and much too busy writing about inappropriate crushes on Harry Potter and dog vomit to care about (insert haughty, disdainful tone of voice here) "cooking."
That all changed, however, when I saw "Julie & Julia." And so, in honor of the Dec. 8 DVD release of the movie, I'd like to share with you how this movie helped transform me from a cooking novice to a cooking whatever-is-one-slight-step-above-a -novice.
Even as a child, I was never one of those little girls who used to watch her mother cook. I was too busy with other important kid stuff, such as watching the Smurfs and torturing my cat by forcing him to wear baby clothes. My non-interest in cooking always bothered my family, especially considering I come from a long line of fabulous cooks. From my mom who thinks she's Italian (she's not but when you taste her pesto, fuggetaboutit) to my grandma and her old-fashioned recipes (whose taste is only rivaled by their artery-clogging abilities), all in my family take pride in their cooking skills. Even the men in my family are culinary whizzes. My Uncle Ken makes a Christmas Eve prime rib that has led more than one cousin to leave the family buffet line with stab wounds in the bid for the biggest piece.
And then there was me. In junior high, my cooking skills were as far advanced as microwave technology allowed (including the Great Metal Bowl In The Microwave Kitchen Fire of '95). By the time I went to college, I'd advanced to macaroni and cheese, which was often made with inventive ingredients such as beer and yogurt since we never EVER had milk or butter in the fridge.
However, by the time I moved to Texas, which severely impeded my ability to raid my mother's Ohio fridge, I began to realize that woman cannot live by grilled cheese sandwiches alone.
So I finally decided to give cooking a try.
I'll admit, it wasn't easy. Three years ago, when I made my first Thanksgiving dinner, the turkey was pulled out of the oven, promptly carved by my fiance and then even more promptly thrust into the microwave to finish cooking.
The first time I made mashed potatoes, I slashed my finger open, resulting in lots of blood and a huge bump on my forehead due to my passing out at the sight of so much blood.
And I have yet to master the art of bacon, which always, always ends in a curse word-ladled tirade directed at the spitting grease and bacon that is burnt in the middle and uncooked and limp on the ends.
Gradually, though, I've gotten better. I've now mastered a lasagna recipe that is, in fact, edible and won't result in food poisoning (must be my "Italian" roots). And just this past Thanksgiving, my turkey was not only cooked all the way through, but also a nice uniform brown color on the outside, rather than my typical patchwork design of burnt and uncooked flesh.
I've even gone as far as buying Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking," of which I have mastered exactly one recipe. OK, well, "mastered" is a pretty strong word. But the last time I attempted it, I did manage to get through it without 1) sobbing uncontrollably and 2) any major appendage covered in massive third-degree burns.
Granted, I've still got a long way to go. But with Julia by my side (and the 911 dispatcher a handy phone call away) I have the feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful, if somewhat painful, friendship.
Aprill Brandon is a reporter for the Advocate. Her eyelashes should be growing back any day now after the Great Exploding Pumpkin Pie Incident of '09.
