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Quote by Julie Powell

“A couple of salmon steaks I'd bought for a shocking amount of money at the Turkish grocery near my office sat on the counter, waiting to be broiled and napped in Sauce à la Moutarde, which is a sort of fake (Julia calls it "mock," but let's call a spade a spade, shall we?) hollandaise sauce, with some mustard stirred in for interest. Slumped beside the fish was a bag of slightly wilted Belgian endive, which I was just going to be braising in butter. Not exactly a demanding menu. Not exactly Foies de Volaille en Aspic, just to cite one example of how I could be living my life more aggressively and bravely and generally being a better person.”

Quote by Julie Powell

Work

Julie & Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously

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Author

Julie Powell
Julie Powell

Julie Powell, born on April 20, 1973, is an American author. She gained fame with her memoir 'Cooking for Mr. Darcy: A Year of French Cooking,' which chronicles her year-long attempt to cook 500 French recipes from The New York Times. more

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“I recalled the time he tricked me into eating a live snail, explaining that snails were a delicacy in France, and if I were to develop a true palate, I had to eat one. It wasn't until later that I learned they were, indeed, delicious, but one didn't just pick up a snail from the garden and put a dash of salt on it. Snails we're eaten after a long curing process and served after they were baked in loads of butter, garlic, and parsley- les escargots de Bourgogne.”

“Food engages sight and sound and texture, not just scent and taste. And food is the most elementary expression of human connection; love without complications. Traveling with my mother has taught me the value of perspective. A simple dish can become ridiculously elevated by an elegant turn of phrase. Bread with a square of chocolate inside becomes a pâtissier's chocolatine; two dozen snails from a woodpile become escargots en persillade.”

“So what are you after, eh? Side of beef? Some chops?' 'Aye, sir. Whatever you fancy.' He licked his lips and listed his favorite dishes: plain pudding, lemon pickle, roast beef. Then he asked for his own particulars: tobacco and coltsfoot for his pipe, and some more comfrey for Her Ladyship's tea. 'And no green oils. Get a block of dripping and cook it plain.' It was true that the food in France had been a great hog potch of good and bad. One night on the road we were served a right mess of giblets, fishy smelling frogs' legs and moldy old cheese. But at Chantilly the fricassee of veal was so tender I'm not sure how they softened it. I could have eaten the whole pot it was that good, but instead had to watch Jesmire scraping off the sauce, whining all the time for a little boiled ham.”

“She had never had such delicious food... tender cockerel that had been simmered with tiny onions in red wine... duck confit expertly roasted until it was melting-soft beneath crisp oiled skin... rascasse fish served in thick truffled sauce... then, of course, there were the desserts... thick slices of cake soaked in liqueur and heaped with meringue, and puddings layered with nuts and glaceed fruit. As Simon witnessed Annabelle's agonized choice of what to order for dessert each night, he assured her gravely that generals had gone to war with far less deliberation than she gave to the choice between the pear tart or the vanilla souffle.”

“Are you a fan of escargot?" he asked. "Not particularly." "Good." His smile eased onto his lips again. "I get concerned when people eat snails." I glanced down the menu. "What about chicken?" "I'm not as concerned." "Then I'm going to order the poulet a la fermiere." "What is that?" I glanced back down at the menu. "It's chicken with cream sauce. A farmwife's bounty, it says, with vegetables and fresh herbs.”

“She leaned over the basket again, taking in the mouthwatering aromas wafting out of it. "Fried chicken? Oh, I'm thinking buttermilk fried chicken?" Dylan was once again amused. "How do you do that?" "I like food." "You don't say." "And I love Southern fried chicken." She tried to open the basket, and he tapped her hand jokingly. "Sit," he said. And she did, crossing her legs and plopping down on the blanket. Opening the basket and playing waiter, Dylan began removing flatware and plates and red-checkered napkins, and then wrapped food. "For lunch today in Chez Orchard de Pomme, we have some lovely cheese, made from the milk of my buddy Mike's goat Shelia." He removed the plastic wrap, which covered a small log of fresh white cheese on a small plate, and handed it to her. Grace put her nose to the cheese. It was heavenly. "Oh, Shelia is my new best friend." "It's good stuff. And we have some fresh chili corn bread. The corn, I think, is from Peter Lindsey's new crop, just cut out from the maze, which is right down this hill." He motioned with his head toward the field, and then he handed her a big loaf of the fresh corn bread wrapped loosely in wax paper. "It's still warm!" Delighted, she held it to her cheek. Then he pulled out a large oval Tupperware container. "And, yes, we have Dolly's buttermilk fried chicken." Grace peeled open the top and smelled. "Fabulous." "It is!" He also pulled out a mason jar of sourwood honey, a sack of pecans, and a couple of very cold bottles of a local mountain-brewed beer.”