Being with Child

A Reflection on the Subtle Influence of Julia Child

I don’t know how I became her; the woman standing here in the corner nursing a beer, not a baby. As at any good party, there is no shortage of women, but mostly they avoid me and my corner, where only the loudest and most raucous men seem to gravitate. So often in our conversations, I find myself listening to how loudly we laugh, rather than to what we’re laughing at, and I scan the room for any hidden disapproving glances. Direct, tough, gentle, competitive, generous, opinionated, optimistic, funny, serious, informative, demanding, frustrating, eloquent, and vibrant and —more than anything— full of life, always fun, and living to the fullest until the last breath, like Julia.

Julia was not like the other women. I met her long before I was old enough for parties; I couldn’t have been older than thirteen. She walked into my life, guffawing at one of her own jokes, and proclaimed, time and time again,  that everyone must “find something they’re passionate about and keep tremendously interested in it”. With a cluck of her tongue, she’d admit she was almost forty before she found out that hers was simply the food she’d been eating for decades, and then she’d pull food she’d prepared out of thin air and share it with everyone in sight. She didn’t hide at parties; I watched her fill the rooms with her stories until every person there was bent clutching their ribs in pain. She must have been truly blind to all the looks thrown from women in the corner, or maybe she simply refused to go anywhere where such women would be. 

They don’t mean any harm, of course. I find myself shooting them encouraging looks across the room because they just look so out of place. They try so hard to keep up with friends, but babies aren’t meant for college parties. But, then again, are mothers? More often than not, they cannot drink, and they avoid all commotion to placate the baby they’re cradling to sleep. Profanity is not welcome in the presence of a baby, and so mothers gravitate together in solidarity, probably wishing they had not come.

I have always preferred to laugh with Julia, though. She was a master of one-liners. Her timing was impeccable, and the twinkle in her eye would tell you that she relished being a little bit devilish. Not everyone has the gift of making rooms of people laugh, nor the confidence to command the attention of many people at once. Draped in the warmth of friendship, these moments of laughter trade all traces of snobbery for hearty laughs and great taste.

Not that everything we eat and drink is cuisine—often it is washed down with a rum and coke, or accompanied by off brand potato chips. It is always good, however, and somehow just what we need in the moment. The best always came from Julia—she was prolific, and her confidence overshadowed even the food that she made. You had to try whatever she brought to the table, and listen to the story of how it was made. Perhaps she ruined me for parties, because now that she’s gone I find no one wants to spend the evening recounting their escapades in the kitchen. My only hope for that kind of talk is across the room, with the women clutching their children, but I can feel my fist tighten around my tinted bottle.

In my head, I imagine I am still like Julia—the center of attention, the joi de vie, telling the best stories and bringing the best food. Instead, my son comes with me, and I sit and hold him, and retreat into a side room to calm him more than I join in any conversation. She was childless; not by choice, although she never let on in large groups. I wonder if she wished she could sit with the mothers, just as I watch the men laughing and wish I still laughed with them. Truthfully, I don’t find them funny anymore, and I choose not to find a babysitter because I want to spend my time with my child, but I still love to laugh and to be a part of uninhibited parties, and I still cling to Julia’s inexhaustible appetite for life. Now I sit, enjoying a coffee and a robust debate with friends, and I go to those late night parties less. My world is no longer concerned with the uncertainty of the future and the celebration of the certain present. Rather I concern myself with the uncertainty of the present and celebrate the certainty of my future, who lays curled up on my chest, fast asleep.