OK, so Orpheus got me Julie & Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen, by Julie Powell, from the public library. I started the book yesterday, having just finished The Omnivore’s Dilemma (a remarkable non-fiction read,) last Friday. Now, I’m usually not one for lightly fictionalized memoirs (oddly enough), but after about 50 pages and thirty-odd minutes of reading, I’m bloody well hooked. Perhaps its’ the niggling similarities between myself and the author… We were both partners adrift in our respective marriages, both bookish at an early age, and found Mom and Dad’s sex manual stashes at startlingly similar times and in similar fashions. This, however, wasn’t enough for Julie. She had to go and 1) successfully save her marriage, 2) discover the joys of cooking at a stressful nexus in her life, exploding into said activity instead of just puttering about, and 3) write about all this in a manner decidedly superior to mine. I’m so jealous I could scream, and pretty sure she could out-cook me without breaking a sweat.
Bitch. Marvelous bitch.
What makes it worse is, there is now no hope for me to create a break-away genre of cooking diary, because it’s already been done. There goes my Booker Prize, and, incidentally, any hope of being played by Moby in a movie version of my so-called life. A real shame, too… I’d love to know who would play an Orpheus convincingly sexy enough to live up to the fleshly beast. ;-)
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