My mom called the other day to tell me, “You should be like Julie Powell.”
She had just seen the movie “Julie & Julia.” And she loved it. It was awesome.
She proceeded to give me the full summary of the movie and the real-life back story of Julie Powell, the writer, for the next fifteen minutes…
“It’s about Julia Child and Julie Powell, the writer. She’s a girl who had a boring day job — just like you! — and she started blogging. Do you know how to blog?”
“So she started cooking and she started blogging. And then she started blogging about cooking…”
“You should do that. You could start a blog. You could be famous.”
“I know, Mom. I know who Julie Powell is. She was in the anthology I edited, remember? She wrote the funny one about ‘Rubber Chicken’? About how everything at her wedding tasted like rubber chicken?”
“Well…you could still do that.”
Anyway, if you’re a Julie Powell fan, you should check out her essay, “Rubber Chicken” from Altared: Bridezillas, Bewilderment, Big Love, Breakups, and What Women Really Think About Contemporary Weddings.
Here’s an excerpt
“Rubber Chicken” by Julie Powell
Though I was young, I was already something of a foodie, by which I mean that I had developed a cluster of firmly held culinary prejudices, a mishmash of New York snobbery and reactionary regionalism that, considered together, added up to a telling, not altogether flattering self-portrait.
…I abhorred every meal I’d ever eaten at a wedding or benefit. I was better than that. This was to be the first night of the rest of my life, my first night as a hostess and wife, and the food served on that rented china atop those be-tableclothed tables under the live oaks was going to be the proving ground for a lifetime of hospitality, grace, and good taste.
What I didn’t realize was that I was messing with a law as immutable as entropy or gravity. Hundreds of guests + unreasonable expectations + catering – billions of dollars = rubber chicken. Hubris, that was my problem.
Now, go buy it so I can be rich and famous like Julie Powell. (Kidding, sort of.)
BUY THE BOOK: