Julia Child: 1912-2004
by J. Daniel Janzen

A few years back, Julia Child was asked by a TV personality half her age whether she ever logged on to the gently enunciated "In-ter-net." Julia responded with no echo of condescension that she kept current on various cooking sites and used the Web as a research tool, but there were only so many hours in the day. The interviewer had mistaken the octogenarian chef for the grandmotherly type — a slightly befuddled prospect for AOL — but that wasn't Julia. She was more like a great aunt, your grandma's slightly wild sister who came over on rainy weekends and taught you magic in the kitchen.

Most TV chefs today are all about their own technique — their no-spill pan flips and Edward Scissorhands knife skills. Julia was more interested in you, and your competency to prepare the classics of European cuisine with your own two hands if you followed her clear, complete and patient instructions. It didn't have to be pretty; the point was to share a delicious meal with your friends, not impress them with a fancy presentation. Her warmth and enthusiasm made it feel like you were there at the worktable with her, julienning carrots while she reduced the stock.

In this era of the chef as artiste, ambitious young restaurateurs make their name with innovation and ideology. Julia, horrified to discover herself a poor cook in the early days of her marriage, earned her toque by studying and mastering the traditions of the academy. She might tweak a recipe here and there, but she never improvised. There was a right way to make every dish, and if you made it that way every time — measuring your seasonings, not just throwing things together willy-nilly — you couldn't go wrong. At the same time, she showed you not to fear mistakes by making a few of her own. Reveling in the wonderful diversity of the culinary world, she tackled exotic ingredients (tongue, tripe, brains) with adventuresome brio, and never missed a chance to wield a slapstick prop (blowtorch, sledgehammer, brick). Even if you never tried the recipes, you never thought about cooking the same way again.

Like the best great aunts, Julia came equipped with winning eccentricities — her grand stature and her blueblood warble — and a romantic past, having met her husband Paul in the intelligence service in Ceylon and studied at the Cordon Bleu in postwar Paris. At the same time, she was no lightweight. There was something of the public intellectual about her, with her academic approach and her public mission. By the time "The French Chef" introduced her to America, she had already spent a decade documenting and perfecting French dishes, then distilling them into recipes that anyone could reasonably hope to follow for her groundbreaking first cookbook, "Mastering the Art of French Cooking." It's hard to imagine what our dinners would look like if she hadn't come along, but England without curry is a starting point.

Julia was one of the four horsemen of public television, along with Fred Rogers, Alistair Cooke and Big Bird (take your vitamins, Big). She pioneered the cooking show format and got it exactly right, and she's been there ever since. As the face of American cuisine she bore her responsibility well; her intellectual depth and commitment made her credible as a leader in her field as well as a populizer. She helped build institutions and foundations while she garnered laurels from an Emmy to a National Book Award to the Legion d'Honneur; her kitchen is in the Smithsonian and her library is at Radcliff.

In recent years, Julia shared her spotlight. On "Baking with Julia," she invited guest chefs to demonstrate their signature dishes in her own home. "Baking" showed Julia at her gracious best, admiring her colleagues' cleverness, pitching in with the side work and subtly filling in details they were too distracted to explain. When a guest was clearly awed by the presence of the great Julia Child, imposing even if a little hunched, she would take the heat off with a little anecdote or helpful hint. Martha Stewart, on the other hand, elicited unabashed shock from Julia at her incredibly labor-intensive marzipan wedding cake.

It was on "Julia and Jacques" that Julia let her hair down. Her counterpart, whom she invariably addressed as "Jack," naturally assumed the lead; he had, after all, been De Gaulle's personal chef. On her side of the counter, Julia provided color commentary for Jacques' blunt commands and provoked a variety of running feuds — how much butter to use, whether garlic was really necessary — to deflate his occasional pomposity. When they cooked in tandem, Julia's version was always a little scrappy compared to his military corners — more like the one you would have made yourself. The depth and openness of their friendship was a pleasure to witness, so many years after the decline and death of Julia's husband from Alzheimer's; "Jacques and Julia" was filmed in the kitchen Paul had built for her in their Cambridge house, tailored to her height.

Going quietly in your sleep in your 90s with your affairs in order and your legacy secure — it's an end you would wish for your real great aunt. A half-century after Julia began cooking, America's food culture is thriving. We take for granted a roster of celebrity chefs and cooking shows for every possible taste, and the appreciation of good food is a pillar of middle class cultural literacy. It's too bad Julia couldn't stay longer, but it was sure great having her as long as we did. Thanks, Julia, and bon appétit.

E-mail J. Daniel Janzen at dan at clownyard dot com.