Friday, March 14, 2003

“My husband was a CIA graduate and I am a gournet cook. I went into your web site by accident. What in the world is your story?!!!! Am I missing something here?!!!! “I too am Julia/Julie!!!! But I can cook!!!!!” My first bona-fide nasty comment.  I was going to let it pass, but I’m not very good with negative input, and this has been gnawing at me, so bear with me, here. I hope that no one thinks that my intention here is to flaunt my culinary expertise.  To me that seems obvious, but maybe it isn’t.  I simply thought it would be good for me, and hopefully entertaining for others, to map my progress as not an accomplished, but a passionate, cook, using the Julie/Julia Project as a tool. I will confess, in fact, to perhaps (slightly) overemphasizing the kitchen disasters.  If I do, it’s because I find chaos and frustration and spectacular flamings-out to be inherently more interesting to read about than gliding ease and uninterrupted bliss.  Part of the reason I started the Project was because as much as I love writing, and as much as I love food, I am bored by much food writing, by the need people seem to have to equate the preparation of food with privilege, romance and unbroken serenity.  To me, a lover of all that is hard and interesting and complex about food and what it means to us, that’s like saying sex is all about blondes with big tits.  I hoped the Project would be about what’s hard and dirty and funny about food.  I imagine that I know that Julia knows this. Maybe this person is just tone-deaf, and doesn’t know how mean her comment sounds.  Or maybe she’s bitter about something else entirely, and just needed to vent.  God knows I understand that – the unemployment rate in New York is approaching 10 percent.  Which means I will be stuck in this dead-end job for the foreseeable future.  You want to talk about bitter?  I could chatter away all day.  But we’re all just trying to get along here.  If folks are annoyed with me, they don’t have to read me.  If they are too annoyed to just let me pass, absolutely send that nasty comment or email.  I’d be glad to talk it out.  Oh, food.  For lunch I went out with my boss for (surprise!!!) French (Freedom) food, and thinking I ought to get something not red meat, I made the excellent decision to get a gratin of potatoes, bacon, and half a wheel of French cheese.  Holy fucking shit.  Come dinner time, I couldn’t eat more than a slice of cold lamb.  I am blossoming into a bouncing baby blue whale here.   7:52:40 AM    comment []