I have begun reading Julia Child's book My Life in France. (sorry, I still have not discovered the "underline" to use for books and titles; someone PLEASE enlighten me.)
I am loving this book! She wrote it using letters she and her husband, Paul, had written to his twin brother through their years abroad, maybe 10 years after World War II. To me, this book is fascinating! Maybe because I have lived abroad and can enjoy her simple day-to-day trials and language barriers. But she is a good writer, too. And to have experienced Europe so soon after the Holocaust (she and her husband were sent to Bonn in part of this book.), and through McCarthyism - when her husband was beckoned from Marseilles to D.C for interviews and accusations of Communism. And I am a fly on the wall through all of this!
And even before I became this fly on the wall, I was first an avid viewer of Julia Child's cooking shows on Public Television. WAYYyyy back in my newlywed days, then my stay-at-home-mom days, then I bought her books, and it has progressed unto this day.
On August 14, 2004, I was traveling around the Arctic Circle. I caught a radio newscast that told that Julia Child had passed away. It did touch me, as I was a fan of hers.
And now that I am reading this book of hers, I think that I would have LOVED to have met her and talked to her about her experiences. Obviously, from what I am reading in her book, she had a grasp of world politics of her time, and she and her husband seemed to make a wonderful enjoyment of whatever was presented to them. And what humor between them!
So I am happy to say that this book has inclined my attention as none other has for months. I have been on a sandbar of worthless reads (in my opinion) for several months now; I am happy to report that this book has kept my attention.
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