by Petra Perkins
I was in the mall on a quiet afternoon, pre-Thanksgiving, pre-Black Friday, and caught Santa sitting on his red-and-green throne (no waiting line!) on his North Pole stage, reading a book. I was curious to know what he was engrossed in, so I got past an elf, promising to buy the inescapable photos she was pushing.
“Hi Santa, what are you reading?” I asked, plopping down beside him (not in his lap, of course, me being a sophisticate). I thought it might be A Christmas Carol, or, ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. Um, no, nothing quite so Dickensian. His Santa Claus snowy beard smiled as he held up his shocking book cover: Thug Kitchen: Eat Like You Give a F*ck.
“Wow,” I said, eloquently.
“Gwenyth recommended it on Goop – she said it’s the best,” he said, handing over his treasure. I thumbed through its profanity-filled chapters. I guessed I could give away my seven shelves of exotic cookbooks now.
“The doctor told me to pack in more veggies, but on my gig I get sooo blitzed with those yummy desserts. MmmMmm.” He patted his tummy which waved like red jello. “I really love to eat, y’know.”
“Me, too,” I lamented. “I’ve been on a Julia Child kick. Bouillabaisse, Coq au Vin,… .”
His eyes glistened like Cherries Flambé.
“So, what would you like for Christmas, young lady… another Julia Child book?”
He kind of reminded me of my chef idol, so jolly and earnest. “Well, I think last year you gave me every book written by and about Julia,” I reminded him, “so now I want more about M.F.K. Fisher, the woman who first got me into French food, and writing.” I told him how, in the ‘70s, I was looking to cook something more sophisticated than Hamburger Helper when I happened on Fisher’s articles in McCall’s and Redbook magazines. She was becoming a renowned Francophile, a foodie marvel, and a cutting-edge upfront-and-personal memoirist. M.F.K. helped me grow up. I adored her as you might adore a worldly, older sister.
Laying his finger aside of his nose: “I’ve got just the thing… How about Provence, 1970, a charming little book – it’s about Julia Child and M.F.K. Fisher -- have you read it?” I shook my head in astonishment. “There’s lots of juicy tidbits about those famous ladies as well as my own hero, James Beard.” He brushed up the wiry hairs around his fleshy pink lips. “It’s all about French cuisine, cooking and eating, and how these food celebrities discovered what their purpose in life was. They ate like they really gave a f*ck.”
“Wow,” I said, again nonplussed. I shifted on the throne as he reached into a big bag marked “Books," rustled around and pulled out a paperback. “By Luke Barr, M.F.K.’s nephew. It’s a well-researched story about savoring the 1970s decadence attributed to France -- shopping for ingredients in seductive markets, slow-cooking them in oils, wines, and sauces to enhance flavors, celebrating farm-fresh vegetables, delighting in gastronomical esoterica. It’s about…”
“Whoa, St. Nick! You had me at ‘savoring’.” I gratefully grabbed the little gem, gave him a hug, paid the elf for my photo, and drove home faster than a sleigh raced by reindeer.
With a bottle of poor-woman’s Bordeaux (Mouton Cadet - $8.99 on Ladies Day) and the snow falling outside, I settled in for a long winter’s nap of reading Barr’s account of Aunty Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher eating and drinking her way across sensuous France.
I was planning to read it straight through but discovered straightaway that doing so would require some serious snacks. The initial descriptions of Provençal appetizers and meals were already making me famished and weak. I zoomed down to the deli and loaded my grandmother’s picnic hamper with foix gras, delicate mushrooms, creamy brie, crusty brioche, pastis, and anything else that sounded French.
Back in my cozy bed and fortified with dry red wine (healthy, non?) and enough nourriture for a week, I decided to savor Barr’s story over several afternoons and evenings. It didn’t seem right or pure to devour ever-so-intimate scenes about historic culinary icons in just one quick read. So, whenever I found a spare hour I would pour du vin, or a vermouth (M.F.K.’s go-to aperitif), pop some mushrooms to glaze in simmering garlic and cognac, and experience, vicariously, the lives of these exquisite food writers whose synergy in 1970 reinvented the way we unsophisticated Americans ate.
I became entranced by details of M.F.K.’s collaborations and friendships with Julia Child, James Beard, Simone Beck and others, as they shared their unique appreciation of revered South-of-France recipes, regional cooking techniques and the French themselves. Their rich conversations, their classic kitchen furnishings, their enjoyment of each other, their civil, but inevitable disagreements, their epiphanies of how they were enlightening American cooks – all had me spellbound (and bloated) for a week. Luke Barr, being quite adept at conveying ‘The French Mystique,' led me, ever hungry, into their passions for preparing the finest meals imaginable, and, similarly, for excellence in food writing.
Yet Provence, 1970 far exceeds mere appetizers and entrées consisting of soulful, delectable food descriptions (no recipes, alas) and renderings of picturesque French settings. It’s full of memorable desserts – lovely and lively scenes, sweet tête-à-têtes and secret revelations -- for tasting slowly, for cherishing each divine morsel of Franco-romance.
The most touching chapter of the story I found to be where M.F.K. is alone in France at Christmastime, in a particularly frigid winter. Her loneliness, so palpable… my heart wrenched for her. (I opened an ice- cold bottle of white Mouton Cadet at this point.) I empathized because I remembered being alone myself one Christmas -- no family, no friends, no warm doggie or kitty, and it was bone-chilling in body and spirit. I’d been on a writing assignment in the midst of a freezing Florida winter. I had nearly the same thing to eat that Mary Frances did: I recall being somewhat cheered by finding a favorite fare, Sole Meuniere, at an ocean pier restaurant. Coincidentally, M.F.K. described being on a writing assignment in Marseille, by the sea, and comforting herself with an extraordinary Bouillabaisse à la Sole (accompanied by a crisp, bracing blanc, no doubt).
We are sisters in decadence, from different decades. Sole sisters.
Petra Perkins is a writer of both fiction and non-fiction. She is a longtime member of Lighthouse Writers Workshop.
This post is part of our Lit Matters series, in which writers and readers express why supporting and elevating literary arts is meaningful to them. Lit Matters stories will be posted throughout the month of November, leading up to Colorado Gives Day on December 9. Mark your calendar for Colorado Gives Day or schedule your gift now. Thank you!
