for my friend Ronda

Note: It’s spelled without an “h”. (Sorry, it’s a private joke, but Ronda Without An H is the only person reading my blog and I feel I owe her something.)

Ok, I haven’t posted in a while because I’m actually reading three books right now, which is just not efficient. I realize this and I intend to change my ADD ways.

And here is my review of: "Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen".

Here’s the premise: It’s an autobiographical account of 29-year-old Julie Powell, a depressed NYC temp in the months following the September 11 attacks. Powell attempts to find some meaning in her life by embarking on an experiment to cook all 524 recipes in Julia Child’s "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" in one year…..in her tiny Long Island City apartment. She captured her experience in a widely-read blog back in 2002.

Now, I didn’t hate this book, but I was not at all impressed by it either. Personally, I believe that a blog does not a book make.

I actually really enjoyed all her accounts of the actual cooking of the recipes. Her discussion of lobster genocide in Long Island City was hysterical. Her accounts of sending her husband and friends traipsing through the far reaches of Queens to find beef marrow were totally compelling. And there is a very amusing chapter on conquering her fear of eggs.

However, the actual accounting her success (and non-successes) in the kitchen were few and far between her inappropriate reactions to EVERYTHING. I mean, everything from washing dishes to answering the phone to obsessing about her 30th birthday. She panicked and whined and cried about all of these things.

If I’m going to be honest, I couldn’t stand the author. I’m sure she didn’t mean to portray herself as an ego-centric head case, who tortures her conveniently long suffering husband and her formulaic eccentric friends with constant temper tantrums and panic attacks (Including throwing a shoe at her doctor’s office), but she did.

I wanted to like her. I did. I gave her a chance, particularly because she is a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan, as I am. However, I began to feel resentment that she parlayed her whining into a paid writing gig. Maybe I’m jealous b/c I would love to be a stay-at-home writer and I haven't figured out how to use my 33-year-old angst to my advantage.

But here is the thing. Powell, although quite intelligent and humorous, cannot WRITE. I mean, I started dog-earring the pages where she could not decide whether to write in present tense or past tense. That is my PET PEEVE. Pick a tense. Stay with it.

And at the end of the day, I was waiting for a lesson learned. For an “A-HA!” moment. Actually, I learned nothing.

I learned that Powell believes cooking is sensual.

And that she drove to the Julia Child exhibit at the Smithsonian museum in DC to leave a stick of butter in homage to the chef. And that she had whined and bitched to her husband the entire way there.