A week of strange juxtapositions – Julia Child has been resurrected, and John Hughes passed away. One makes me think of Grand Marnier soufflé, the other of raw cookie dough.
Julie and Julia doesn’t come out in France until September 16th, but my mother did a little reconnaissance on Sunday afternoon. Julie Powell and I share an editor (Judy Clain) and a publishing house (Little Brown), so naturally my mom wanted to see what else we had in common. She called me straight from the movie theatre. Her comment: “I didn’t know anyone but you could be so obsessed with a lemon zester.”
Amy Adam’s unfortunate haircut aside, I just love the idea of Meryl Streep as a 6ft hot toddy. As if we needed further proof – I think it’s been clear since she rescued Mama Mia – that she really can do ANYTHING.
John Hughes’ death started a flurry of gen-X mourning among my Facebook friends. Sad but true – our entire stock of adolescent fantasies has been provided by 6 or 8 hours of celluloid. Well into our teens, my friend Sarah and I had a ritual: The Breakfast Club, a mixing bowl of raw cookie dough and two spoons. Whatever else the women of my generation have become (and that’s a lot of wonderful things), in our heart of hearts, we are all Hughes’ girls – kissing a bad boy, designing our own prom dress, and waiting for some guy in a letterman’s jacket to make a pass over birthday candles while squatting on the dining room table.
