Julia, page 35
Julia wasn’t fazed by the man’s surprise. Certainly they’d never had a cooking demonstration on the show before, so she planned to bring everything else. Requesting a hot plate wasn’t such a big deal, was it?
When she arrived on the set on February 11, 1962, with Paul at her side, she was ready. At least, she hoped. She and Paul had gone through the demonstration at least a dozen times. She’d agonized over what to wear and had finally settled on a white blouse, her red badge that said Gourmandes, and a pleated skirt. They entered the building and were greeted with a general haze of cigarette smoke.
Immediately, Miffy Goodhart eagerly greeted her. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Child,” Miffy gushed, looking up at her. “Everyone in Cambridge has been talking about your wonderful cookbook. I think your appearance will appeal to younger viewers, and it will be nice to offer something other than straight-laced literature, politics, and science. Lighten the mood around here, you know.”
Julia hadn’t followed the “mood” of the program, but she figured this appearance would help cookbook sales and maybe earn her some more speaking or demonstration events.
“I hope my request for a hot plate wasn’t too demanding,” she said.
“Oh, not at all.” Miffy laughed. “It created a buzz, but in a good way. Everyone is looking forward to meeting you.”
“Even the professor?” Julia teased.
“Especially the professor.”
“I promise it will be fun, dearie,” Julia told Miffy. “We’ll teach the professor a thing or two. Just watch.”
Miffy grinned, then took Julia on the rounds to meet Professor Al Duhamel and the cameraman. Other staff consisted of Cambridge housewives, who apparently volunteered as support staff.
“There’s to be a cooking demonstration?” Julia was asked more than once. They wouldn’t have time for any rehearsal, and she could see that the cameraman was a bit out of his element. Oh well, they’d all figure it out together.
Paul was already unloading the groceries onto the coffee table that was part of the set, nestled between two leather chairs. Next, Paul placed her long-handled omelet pan next to the hot-plate burner.
The cameraman was staring at Julia and, in fact, circled her, looking her up and down.
“Do you have a question?” Julia finally asked.
“How am I supposed to light you?”
Julia laughed. Obviously, the man hadn’t dealt with TV guests who would be standing, let alone someone as tall as she. “I guess you’ve never worked with a T-Rex before?”
His lips quirked, consternation still in his eyes.
“How about we raise the burner?” She crossed to the coffee table and slid a few books that might have been props under the burner so it would bring it closer to the action. “Is this better?”
The cameraman peered into his camera, then raised his hand. “Much better.”
Soon, Julia took a seat in the leather chair opposite Al Duhamel, who was already acting the conciliatory host, his smile friendly, his voice assured. The camera started rolling, and Julia told herself to focus on Al and not search for her husband in the small audience. She barely heard the professor’s complimentary introduction to her cookbook, and then it was her turn to do the demonstration.
She stood from the chair and stepped behind the coffee table. “I only have a hot plate for this demonstration, so I’m going to make an omelet.” She nodded to the cameraman, who’d inched closer. “Omelets are wonderful and quick to make, and you don’t need a lot of equipment.”
She turned on the burner and set the pan atop it. Then she cracked the eggs on the side of the copper bowl. Next, she blended them with a fork. She paused to add butter to the warming pan. “Now, you want to use real butter in your pan. It will create a delicious flavor when mixed with your eggs. The omelet should be thrilling in your mouth.”
The butter began to sizzle in the pan.
“Once your eggs are beaten, you pour them into your omelet pan.” She glanced at the camera. “Everyone needs an omelet pan, yes?” She picked up the bowl. “You need to be attentive because this will cook very fast—in about thirty seconds.”
Julia poured the mixture into the pan, and the golden liquid began to bubble almost instantly. She grasped the long handle and began to jiggle the pan back and forth, moving the egg mixture around the pan as it cooked. “You might be wondering how I fell in love with French cooking and why I’ve spent years working on a cookbook with my coauthors. Once you taste French food, you’ll understand.”
She looked over at her host, who seemed to be staring at her in disbelief. He gave her a smile, though, and she smiled back. “This omelet will convert everyone because it’s so delicious.”
In a short time, just as she told the audience, the omelet was finished. “Now, we just slide it onto a plate.” She realized too late that there was only one fork. “Try it, Professor. You take the first bite.”
She forked up a section of the omelet and held it up.
Al stood, hesitated, then crossed to her, his expression dubious. He ate right off the fork, and Julia smiled, waiting for the moment she knew would come.
Al’s face transformed as he chewed, morphing from skepticism to delight.
“There,” Julia said in a triumphant tone. “The omelet is delicious, isn’t it?”
Al’s smile appeared. “It certainly is, Mrs. Child. Thank you for demonstrating an omelet for our viewers.” He continued to say a few more things about the cookbook, but Julia was scanning for Paul’s face beyond the bright lights. There. He sat beyond the halo of lights. His hands clasped together. Beaming.
“You were excellent,” Paul said after they’d gathered their equipment, thanked everyone, and headed home.
“It was fun,” Julia said, adrenaline still buzzing through her. “Truly fun. I didn’t feel stressed at all once it started. I didn’t have to worry about Simca being silent or the intimidation of the Today show. I could just be myself.”
“And that’s what made it so wonderful, my dear,” Paul said. “You were your lovely self. Vivacious, witty, and charming.”
Julia had to kiss him for that. “Well, it was a fun experiment, but I guess I should buckle down and begin writing the next cookbook since sales continue to be strong.”
Paul nodded, but there was a gleam of confidence in his eye that Julia didn’t quite understand until Russ Morash showed up on their doorstep two months later.
Julia invited the man in.
Miffy had called her to tell her that the television station had received a lot of positive feedback—phone calls and letters—after her appearance. And would she be willing to meet with Russ Morash?
Paul had immediately been excited, but Julia couldn’t imagine why the man would come all the way to 103 Irving Street to meet her—since her appearance on the show was long over.
Julia ushered him into the house, and she and Paul brought him into the kitchen, where they had coffee waiting. Russ was in his late twenties, his dark hair cut short.
“You probably already have an inkling of what this is all about,” Russ said, looking between the two. “Miffy has been ecstatic over the response we received after your appearance. We had multiple calls asking when you’d be back on the air.”
Julia stared at Russ. She knew this—but hearing it from Russ, in person, felt like it carried more weight.
“I’ll have to admit,” Russ continued, “I’m no cook, and my wife, Marian, works—so we’re content with franks-and-beans casseroles. Growing up, my mother had good intentions when cooking, but she cooked everything until it was unrecognizable and tasteless. The faster we ate the mystery food, the faster we could be excused from the table.”
Julia tried not to wince, but she was pretty sure she failed.
“Long story short, Miffy has been petitioning me and our program manager, Bob Larsen. She’s also called Dave Davis, who is the station manager, and Henry Morgenthau, who runs the whole operation.” He paused, a wry smile on his face. “She’s not taking no for an answer.”
“No for what answer?” Julia asked, even though her drumming heart told her what might be happening—that Paul’s predictions were coming true.
Russ spread his hands on the tabletop. “We want to offer a cooking show in our lineup, and we want you to be the cook. You have a gregarious personality, you have a compelling range in your voice, and you know your way around a recipe.” Before she could answer, he continued, “We don’t have a studio to accommodate a kitchen right now, and I don’t know what kind of resources we can gather, but everyone who’s watched your demonstration on I’ve Been Reading agrees—you’re too talented and charismatic on television to not be on a cooking show.”
Julia couldn’t speak for a moment, and Paul reached over and squeezed her hand. She had no doubt what his answer was; she could practically feel the excitement reverberating from him.
“If you need time to think about it, we understand,” Russ continued. “The station wants to put together three pilots and see how they do. If all goes well, then we’d plan out a full season of twenty-six shows.”
Julia gasped; she couldn’t help it. Her own television series? Paul’s hold on her hand tightened. She was nearly fifty years old, and it was as if the opportunity of a lifetime had dropped into her lap. How could she turn this down? She knew there was a lot to work out, a lot to decide, a lot to prepare, but excitement hummed along her skin, making the hairs on her arms rise.
“I’d love to film the pilots,” Julia said. “What’s on the menu? Any preferences?”
“That’s your department, Mrs. Child,” Russ said.
“Oh, call me Julia, dearie.”
Russ was still grinning when he said, “What about that omelet you made? Can you turn that into a thirty-minute show? We’ve heard about nothing except omelet this and omelet that for the past two months.”
Julia threw a smile at Paul, then said, “Sure. I mean, there are different fillings that can be made, and if I cover those, plus explain the importance of the height of the flame and the type of pan and serving options, we could definitely fill up an entire show.”
“Excellent,” Russ said.
Julia’s mind was racing full steam ahead. “How about in one of the pilots, we demonstrate a soufflé? It’s the number-one question asked when I was on the road doing cooking demonstrations. Many people avoid the soufflé because they worry it will collapse.”
“I think that sounds excellent too,” Russ said.
Julia glanced at her husband. “And the third pilot show will be coq au vin, a true French classic.”
That first meeting at their home with Russ Morash was one of many as they worked through the decisions of each stage in putting the show together. Russ told her that she’d have to practice speaking while cooking, and Paul took the lead on that. She and Paul spent hours in the kitchen as she practiced each recipe and kept up a running commentary. No two practices were alike, but Paul didn’t complain, and the laughter was plenty.
The timing was critical, and during their rehearsals, they broke down each step. Some things had to be prepared in advance, or there wouldn’t be a finished product at the end of thirty minutes. Paul became the master of the stopwatch, timing each step, then timing the entire performance.
“The camera needs to become your best friend,” Russ had told Julia during one of their meetings. “On the other side of that camera is a person you need to make feel that you really care about them.”
Meanwhile, Russ worked to find them a location and finally settled on a utility kitchen at the Boston Gas Company—a place where the company showed contractors how to operate a gas flame. The kitchen had a nice center island, with a cooktop cut into it, and ample cabinets. The only problem was that there was no running water. They’d have to find a workaround.
Then the debates began of what to call the cooking show. This reminded Julia of the headache of coming up with the title of the cookbook. So many people putting in their opinions made for a chaotic process. The title needed to be no more than three words and have the word French in it.
Paul and Julia brainstormed, laughing themselves silly over some of their ideas: Gourmet Kitchen, Cuisine Magic, Table d’Hôte . . . Finally, Russ Morash and his assistant, Ruth Lockwood, came up with The French Chef.
Julia wasn’t French, of course, or a chef, but for the purposes of the show, she’d be cooking all things French. But everyone liked it, and it was straightforward, so Julia agreed.
Chapter 35
Boston, Massachusetts
May–June 1962
“We used 16 or 35 millimeter black-and-white film which ran continuously during the taping. There was no editing, no cutting in, and the only way to edit videotape was to literally cut the tape with a razor and tape it. We used two cameras, each the size of a coffee table, four only for the Boston Symphony, and when Julia moved from the stove to the refrigerator it was a very big deal that took careful planning.”
—Russ Morash, WGBH-TV
Julia felt like she was writing her cookbook all over again with the amount of time she spent in her kitchen. This time, though, it was with Paul, and they were breaking down and staging the cooking demonstrations for the three shows she’d be doing for The French Chef.
Paul became the expert stage manager, and he oversaw everything from the arrangement of the ingredients to what Julia said and when to making sure they stayed within the allotted amount of time.
Russ Morash made several visits to their home with updates and advice. He told them that a group of women volunteers was decorating the set, putting up curtains, selecting kitchen items, coordinating napkins for each show, and more.
Each day, Julia checked in with Phila and Dort. Pop wasn’t doing well and had gone through another bout of illness. The doctors were running tests because his weight loss was concerning. Finally, they determined that he had cancer, but he was told that he had a good five to six years left. His weight kept dropping, though, and Julia and Paul booked a trip to Pasadena.
Only hours after their arrival, her father took his last breath. In his final moments, he’d been surrounded by his children and grandchildren.
“I’m grateful it was a peaceful passing,” Dort said in the quiet as the two sisters sat on the back terrace, like they had in their younger years. The house had settled down for the night, everyone else having retired to bed.
Despite her exhaustion, Julia couldn’t sleep, and it seemed that neither could Dort.
“I wish I would have arrived sooner,” Julia said. “He wasn’t even talking when I finally made it.”
Dort reached over and grasped Julia’s hand. “He knew you were there.”
Julia blinked against the stinging in her eyes. Finally, the tears were coming. “I hope so, unless it made him agitated since I married an intellectual.”
“He was proud of you, you know,” Dort said. “Both of you. He always talked about your adventures.”
“You mean complained?” Julia said in a light tone, wiping at her eyes.
“That was his way.” Dort shrugged. “He wasn’t going to change in his eighties.”
Julia released a breath, and they sat in silence for several minutes. “Maybe it was a blessing to go now and not drag on with the cancer. He didn’t even look like himself after losing so much weight. Really, he was a shell of who he used to be.”
Dort released her hand. “It’s a strange thing to lose your last living parent. Makes me feel old too. As if life has passed by much too quickly, and it makes me wonder if I should have done anything differently.”
Julia turned her head to gaze at her sister’s profile. The older they grew, the more they resembled each other. “You took great care of Pop. When I was in Ceylon all that time and other times while I was living abroad.”
“I mostly did it for Phila’s sake,” Dort said. “She’s wonderful.”
Julia wholeheartedly agreed.
Her sister turned to look at her. Somehow, with a lot of twists and turns in their lives, they’d both found their own paths to happiness. And for that, Julia was grateful.
“What’s this?” John asked, coming out onto the terrace, drink in hand. “I didn’t know there was a family meeting going on.”
“Oh, sit down,” Julia said, waving at the nearby lounge chair. “We were plotting a way to cut you out of the will.”
John settled on a chair. “It’s good to see both of my sisters in one place, despite the circumstances. I don’t remember the last time the three of us were together.”
“That’s because you’re getting gray and old,” Dort said. “Your memory is going.”
“I’ll never be as old as you two,” he said.
Julia smirked. “I’m starting my second life. Haven’t you heard, I’m a best-selling cookbook author now.”
Both of her siblings groaned, then laughed.
“I think you just volunteered to cook us dinner tomorrow,” Dort said.
Julia went silent at that. She thought of the few times she’d cooked in her childhood home—very few times. “It would be an honor. I’ll make something that even Pop would love if he were here.”
The next night, she cooked open-faced French omelets and garnished them with onions, peppers, tomatoes, and ham. As she served the meal, she told her siblings about how savory omelets were eaten for supper in France. Their conversation shifted from childhood memories to sharing stories about both their father and mother.
By the following morning, Julia finally felt ready to say goodbye to her siblings. With Paul stoically waiting with the luggage and hired car, she embraced each of them one last time.
When she and Paul arrived back in Cambridge, she felt more settled and at peace with Pop’s death. He hadn’t been the easiest father to communicate with, but he’d always watched out for her and offered generous help. He loved in his own way.
