A few months ago, for our third anniversary, we treated ourselves to a weekend away. I found a little studio cabin on Whidbey Island we could rent.
The cabin was five miles away from the town of Langley, which is the size of a postage stamp. You can walk the whole thing in about 45 minutes, with pauses for window shopping. Of course, my first request involved heading straight to the coffee shop. But their bulletin pole stopped me in a my tracks.
The Whidbey Island Writer's Conference was posted precariously close to a notice about their roller derby. I'm home!!
Just down the street was an antique book shop. Of course, if we're staying in a cabin with a water view and a wood fireplace, I came stocked with books. Here's my new definition of paradise: Hot coffee in bed, roaring fire, and reading "My life in France" by Julia Child in bed, while hubby snoozes. Can it get any better? Of course, actually BEING Julia Child and living in Paris, while attending Le Cordon Bleu, would be Better. But for me, this was good.
Anyhoo, antique book shop. After some browsing, I spied Julia Child's famous cookbook, but when I picked it up, a newspaper clipping fell out. I've no idea why, but I felt like Nancy Drew discovering a jewel hidden in a grandfather clock.
At this juncture, the nice man in the book shop experienced a Mr. Hyde takeover and demanded I put away my camera… ahem, my iPhone. Otherwise, I'd have tried to enlarge the text. Oh well. I'd just read how Julia failed her final exam at cooking school, having not memorized the trite little recipes in the school booklet. Her response was to whip up those recipes, alone in the school kitchen, in a "cold, clean fury. And then to eat them."
The little man would not dampen my French Cooking Theme Day. JP understood my sudden fever and treated me to Prima Cafe that night, a French restaurant, where I ordered the most buttery piece of trout on the menu. Sublime. Thank you, Julia, for indulging my love of butter and for writing such a lovely autobiography.