I don't envy their nomadic lifestyle (Paul worked for the U.S. Foreign Service, so they moved with his job every few years) or Julia's intense devotion to both the art and science of cooking (as I've mentioned before, I don't really like to cook, and my husband Topher is the one with the culinary skills).
But I do envy her writing skills, and all the exquisite food that she ate during their many years living in France. She has a talent for describing meals in such detail that it makes your mouth water. Remembering her very first meal in France, she writes:
"Rouen is famous for its duck dishes, but after consulting the waiter Paul had decided to order sole meuniere. It arrived whole: a large flat Dover sole that was perfectly browned in a sputtering butter sauce with a sprinkling of chopped parsley on top. The waiter carefully placed the platter in front of us, stepped back, and said: 'Bon appetit!' I closed my eyes and inhaled the rising perfume. Then I lifted a forkful of fish to my mouth, took a bite, and chewed slowly. The flesh of the sole was delicate, with a light but distinct taste of the ocean that blended marvelously with the browned butter. I chewed slowly and swallowed. It was a morsel of perfection" (p.18).
Another time she wrote about trying recipes for game animals during the autumn hunting season:
"I was thrilled when [Chef] Bugnard instructed me on where to buy a proper haunt of venison and how to prepare it. I picked a good-looking piece, then marinated it in red wine, aromatic vegetables, and herbs, and hung the lot for several days in a big bag out the kitchen window. When I judged it ready, by smell, I roasted it for a good long while. The venison made a splendid dinner, with a rich, deep, gamy-tasting sauce, and for days afterward Paul and I feasted on its very special cold meat" (p.122-123).
The care she took to remember each color and smell, and to actually taste each bite, inspires me to slow down and really enjoy my meals, however humble they may be.