Julie and Julia

I finally saw the movie Saturday night. I had been afraid to, fearing disappointment. It wasn't the casting. Certainly not with Meryl's Julia. Even before hearing her spot-on Julia, I knew she could pull it off. Heck, If Meryl (and I call her Meryl because I went to High School with her cousin Amy) announced she was playing the title role in a remake of Conan the Barbarian I'd believe she could pull it off!

Amy Adams was wonderful in Enchanted, and she's a redhead. I have a thing for redheads. I started to cook because of a redhead.

Jane Lynch? My sister didn't know her. Sorry Yinnie, if you don't know Jane Lynch you are watching the wrong movies. She is great.

Then there is Stanley Tucci. If there is a cook out there who doesn't revere him and Tony Shalhoub for Big Night, I will show them how to break down a carcass on their carcasses.

No, my worry was trying to parallel Julie and Julia with My Life in France. Look, I loved lurking at Julie's blog (I still do) and enjoyed Julie and Julia, but the comparison of the two stories seemed like comparing Mastering the Art of French Cooking to the Rochester Hadassah Cookbook. Both are inportant to my culinary life, but not equal in their impact.

I was wrong.

The movie was delightful, the acting and script. What got to me was the penultimate scene, the one pictured above, where Julie Powell leaves a pound of butter at the Julia's Kitchen display at the Smithsonian. I giggled when I read it. I cried when I watched it.

I suddenly realized what I had missed before in the Julie/Julia story. I remembered the importance of Julia to my cooking, and realized that Julie basically served as a representative of all the lives Julia touched! A pound of butter left on the altar of Saint Julia.

Thank you Julia.

And thank you Julie.

Bon Appetit!