MY LIFE IN FRANCE

My Life in France, by Julia Child with Alex Prud’homme: Oh so charming, if intermittently a bit tedious in its details. Like many inexperienced memoirists, Child occasionally devolves into unfocused, strictly chronological play-by-play, giving every occurrence equal weight rather than concentrating on what we really want to know about, which is (a) THE FOOD, and (b) her all-around awesomeness—although I cut her major slack because this is an “as told to” book based on interviews she gave later in life to her grandnephew, rather than a piece of writing she carefully crafted. But that’s a small quibble about an otherwise witty and illuminating read. How could you fail to enjoy a book that contains prouncements like these?

• “I was a six-foot-two-inch, thirty-six-year-old, rather loud and unserious Californian. The sight of France in my porthole was like a giant question mark.”

• “At Smith I did some theater, a bit of creative writing, and played basketball. But I was a pure romantic, and only operating with half my burners turned on; I spent most of my time there just growing up. It was during Prohibition and in my senior year a bunch of us piled into my car and drove to a speakeasy in Holyoke. It felt so dangerous and wicked. The speakeasy was on the top floor of a warehouse, and who knew what kind of people would be there? Well, everyone was perfectly nice, and we each drank one of everything, and on the drive home most of us got heartily sick. It was terribly exciting!”

• “Over the summer and into the fall of 1955, I finished my chicken research and began madly fussing about with geese and duck. One weekend I overdid it a bit, when, in a fit of experimental zeal, I consumed most of two boned stuffed ducks (one hot and braised, one cold en croute) in a sitting. I was a pig, frankly, and bilious for days, which served me right.”