Cooking with Julia Child Stirs Up Memories

There are two schools of thought when it comes to writing in your books. There are those who believe that pencil jottings in a book’s margins are tantamount to sacreilige, and there are those who believe that it’s a useful method to interact with the text. I fall somewhere in between the two schools, except when it comes to cookbooks. For me, writing in a cookbook is necessary; I record even the slightest change I make to a recipe, the times that I’ve served a particular dish, what I served it with and what I learned each time I cooked it. No cookbook has been the recipient of pencil-scrawled notes more than my copy of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” by Julia Child, whose 100th birthday was Wednesday.

This massive, all-encompassing tome tells amateur chefs like myself how to do everything from creating your own stocks and broths to deboning a chicken and killing a lobster. It’s all in Julia Child’s clear, friendly, inimitable prose; somehow serving a beef aspic is a lot more appetizing when Julia Child is telling you how to do it. And for those just starting their own cooking journey, that voice is invaluable.

I was first given “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” as a birthday present when I turned eighteen; I was so excited that I actually lugged the 600+ page hardback copy to high school with me so I could read it between classes. I was enamored with all things French, and somehow that cookbook seemed like a passport to a more elegant, sophisticated and worldly life.

However, what struck me about “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” was just how straightforward and accessible the majority of the recipes were, even to a novice cook in a small rural town. There weren’t a lot of expensive, hard-to-source ingredients, nor were there oodles of confusing techniques and specialized equipment involved. And perhaps most importantly, the skills and techniques taught in its pages were enormously versatile and could be used regardless of the cuisine.

When cooking, I still pat all of my beef dry with paper towels to ensure that it browns evenly, and I don’t overcrowd mushrooms when sauteeing them in a pan, just as Julia Child taught her readers not to do. While I have yet to master her technique for the perfect omelet, my creations are far better than the leaden slabs of egg that used to pass for an omelet on Sunday mornings of yore. And there are recipes from “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” that have definitely made it into my repertoire on a regular basis.

Julia Child’s Beef Bourguignon recipe has become a family favorite, and remains the specialty of my mother, who purchased her own copy of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” shortly after giving me mine. Every fall I look forward to making an enormous pot of French Onion Soup for a meal that is both delicious and economical. In summer months I use whatever seasonal fruit is available to make a clafoutis – this weekend I’m hoping to make one with wild blackberries. And for every recipe that I’ve tried, there are easily ten more waiting to be cooked and savored.

What means the most to me in the pages of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” are the numerous handwritten notes that jockey for space beside the splatters of vanilla extract or red wine. “ALWAYS. BRAISE. ONIONS.” reads one particularly dramatic entry. “Summer 2007 – Berry picking with Lara and Amy!” reads another. They are scattered throughout the book, some pragmatic, some irreverent, all deeply evocative of a time and space. Pragmatic, irreverent, evocative – just like Julia Child herself.