Julia Child - My Life in France

My Life in France

Julia Child

WITH ALEX PRUDHOMME

ALFRED A. KNOPF NEW YORK 2006

CONTENTS

To Paul

FOREWORD

IN AUGUST 2004, Julia Child and I sat in her small, lush garden in Montecito, California, talking about her life. She was thin and a bit stooped, but more vigorous than shed been in weeks. We were in the midst of writing this book together. When I asked her what she remembered about Paris in the 1950s, she recalled that she had learned to cook everything from snails to wild boar at the Cordon Bleu; that marketing in France had taught her the value of les human relations; she lamented that in her day the American housewife had to juggle cooking the soup and boiling the diapersadding, if she mixed the two together, imagine what a lovely combination that would make!

The idea for My Life in France had been gestating since 1969, when her husband, Paul, sifted through hundreds of letters that he and Julia had written his twin brother, Charles Child (my grandfather), from France in 19481954. Paul suggested creating a book from the letters about their favorite, formative years together. But for one reason or another, the book never got written. Paul died in 1994, aged ninety-two. Yet Julia never gave up on the idea, and would often talk about her intention to write the France book. She saw it, in part, as a tribute to her husband, the man who had swept her off to Paris in the first place.

I was a professional writer, and had long wanted to work on a collaborative project with Julia. But she was self-reliant, and for years had politely resisted the idea. In December 2003, she once again mentioned the France book, in a wistful tone, and I again offered to assist her. She was ninety-one, and her health had been waxing and waning. This time she said, All right, dearie, maybe we should work on it together.

My job was simply to help Julia tell her story, but it wasnt always easy. Though she was a natural performer, she was essentially a private person who didnt like to reveal herself. We started slowly, began to work in sync, and eventually built a wonderfully productive routine. For a few days every month, Id sit in her living room asking questions, reading from family letters, and listening to her stories. At first I taped our conversations, but when she began to poke my tape recorder with her long fingers, I realized it was distracting her, and took notes instead. The longer we talked about little old France, the more she remembered, often with vivid intensityOoh, those lovely roasted, buttery French chickens, they were so good and chickeny!

Many of our best conversations took place over a meal, on a car ride, or during a visit to a farmers market. Something would trigger a memory, and shed suddenly tell me about how she learned to make baguettes in Paris, or bouillabaisse in Marseille, or how to survive a French dinner partyJust speak very loudly and quickly, and state your position with utter conviction, as the French do, and youll have a marvelous time!

Almost all of the words in these pages are Julias or Pauls. But this is not a scholarly work, and at times I have blended their voices. Julia encouraged this approach, pointing out that she and Paul often signed their letters PJ or Pulia, as if they were two halves of one person. I wrote some of the exposition and transitions, and in so doing tried to emulate Julias idiosyncratic word choicesPlop!, Yuck!, Woe!, Hooray! Once I had gathered enough material, I would write up a vignette; she would avidly read it, correct my French, and add things as they occurred to her in small, rightward-slanting handwriting. She loved this process, and was an exacting editor. This book energizes me! she declared.

Julia and I shared a sense of humor, and appetite, and she thought I looked like Paul, which probably helped our collaboration. As for me, I was grateful for the chance to reconnect with her and to be part of such an interesting project. Some writers find that the more they learn about their co-authors the less they like them, but I had the opposite experience: the more I learned about Julia Child, the more I came to respect her. What impressed me most was how hard she worked, how devoted she was to the rules of la cuisine franaise while keeping herself open to creative exploration, and how determined she was to persevere in the face of setbacks. Julia never lost her sense of wonder and inquisitiveness. She was, and is, a great inspiration.

Another great inspiration has been our editor, Judith Jones, who worked with Julia for more than forty years. With patience and a deep understanding of our subject, she was indispensable in helping to shape this book. Judiths assistant, Ken Schneider, was also a great help.

On August 13, 2004just after our conversation in her garden, and only two days before her ninety-second birthdayJulia died of kidney failure in her sleep. Over the next year, I finished My Life in France, but every day wished I could call her up and ask her to clarify a story, or to share a bit of news, or just to talk. I miss her. But through her words in these pages, Julias voice remains as lively, wise, and encouraging as ever. As she would say, We had such fun!

Alex Prudhomme
August 2005

Me in the middle, surrounded by my brother, John, and younger sister, Dorothy

Introduction

THIS IS A BOOK about some of the things I have loved most in life: my husband, Paul Child; la belle France; and the many pleasures of cooking and eating. It is also something new for me. Rather than a collection of recipes, Ive put together a series of linked autobiographical stories, mostly focused on the years 1948 through 1954, when we lived in Paris and Marseille, and also a few of our later adventures in Provence. Those early years in France were among the best of my life. They marked a crucial period of transformation in which I found my true calling, experienced an awakening of the senses, and had such fun that I hardly stopped moving long enough to catch my breath.

Before I moved to France, my life had not prepared me for what I would discover there. I was raised in a comfortable, WASPy, upper-middle-class family in sunny and non-intellectual Pasadena, California. My father, John McWilliams, was a conservative businessman who managed family real-estate holdings; my mother, Carolyn, whom we called Caro, was a very warm and social person. But, like most of her peers, she didnt spend much time in the kitchen. She occasionally sallied forth to whip up baking-powder biscuits, or a cheese dish, or finnan haddie, but she was not a cook. Nor was I.

As a girl I had zero interest in the stove. Ive always had a healthy appetite, especially for the wonderful meat and the fresh produce of California, but I was never encouraged to cook and just didnt see the point in it. Our family had a series of hired cooks, and theyd produce heaping portions of typical American farefat roasted chicken with buttery mashed potatoes and creamed spinach; or well-marbled porterhouse steaks; or aged leg of lamb cooked medium graynot pinky-red rare, as the French doand always accompanied by brown gravy and green mint sauce. It was delicious but not refined food.