As I have mentioned a few times in this blog, I sometimes get discouraged with pop culture. And, as you have seen, I can ignore my blog for months at a time. The death of Michael Jackson has left me decidedly un-entertained by the shennanigans of Heidi and Spencer, Lindsay Lohan or even my old throwback, Justin Timberlake, who seems content doing everything but making music (Congrats to him for snagging and Emmy for Best Actor in a Comedy Series—the first for an “SNL” host). I don’t care about Kourtney Kardashian’s baby or who’s bonin’ whom on the latest edition of “The Real World.” I’m not even excited for this year’s trainwreck award show, the VMAs. Yes, bloggers, I have been suffering from the worst case pop culture ennui I’ve ever had, and “G.I. Joe: The Rise of the Cobra” or “Patron Tequila” by the Paradiso Girls isn’t curing it.
But today, in a small theater in Nowhere, Midwest, my ennui was cured, the love of all things entertainment reborn after seeing the delicious little film called “Julie and Julia.” Starring the always scrumptious Meryl Strep (having a ball as always) and the adorable Amy Adams, the movie follows the lives of Julia Child and Julie Powell, two women, one in the 1950s, one in the new millenium, who found their joy and accomplishment in food.
In the first twenty minutes, I was rapt by Julie’s disgust at the daily drudgery of a job she hates, having little money (thankfully, I don’t live above a pizza joint) and edging closer to the big 3-0 miles away from the goals and successes you’d thought you’d have by that terrifying milestone.
My struggles have been briefly mentioned in this blog as well: finding a job that I can remotely enjoy, trying to get my book published, trying to make something of myself and not be jealous of my more successful friends. In college, I discovered a love of and a talent for cooking so much that I have contemplated enrolling in culinary school. Yes, while my peers were doing kegstands and playing beer pong, I was roasting chickens and saving a for a pasta maker. Watching the film felt like being rejuvenated, being heard, being understood just like Julie did when she cooked Juila’s recipes. While I don’t anticipate plowing through all 524 recipes in “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” I definitely search the book for inspriation of my own, and hopefully, it’s in the Boeuf Bourguignon or the Pear Tarte.
My struggles have been briefly mentioned in this blog as well: finding a job that I can remotely enjoy, trying to get my book published, trying to make something of myself and not be jealous of my more successful friends. In college, I discovered a love of and a talent for cooking so much that I have contemplated enrolling in culinary school. Yes, while my peers were doing kegstands and playing beer pong, I was roasting chickens and saving a for a pasta maker. Watching the film felt like being rejuvenated, being heard, being understood just like Julie did when she cooked Juila’s recipes. While I don’t anticipate plowing through all 524 recipes in “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” I definitely search the book for inspriation of my own, and hopefully, it’s in the Boeuf Bourguignon or the Pear Tarte.
