PROLOGUE
A REPORTER ONCE ASKED Julia Child what she might whip up for her creator when she got to heaven. Julia wasn't a religious person—she believed heaven was right here on earth, in her own cozy kitchen, hovering over a skillet sizzling with shallots and butter, then sitting down to share a meal with people she loved, a cat wrapped around her ankles, meowing for treats.
She lost count of how often she'd been quizzed about what she wanted for her own last meal. She once composed a detailed menu that left nothing to chance: Begin with Cotuit oysters on thinly sliced and buttered homemade rye bread. Caviar and vodka, then fresh green California asparagus. For the main course, her favorite duck recipe, "the one in which you roast the duck until the breast is rare and then cook the legs and wings separately en confit, with a very nice light port wine sauce." Serve it with peas and pommes Anna and a big Burgundy or Saint-émilion from a very good year. Crusty French bread, of course. Follow the entrée with lettuce and endive dressed with lemon and French olive oil. A classic creamy dessert, Charlotte Malakoff, paired with an ambrosial Chateau d'Yquem. Top off the meal with some ripe grapes, a Comice pear, perhaps chocolate truffles with the coffee and liqueurs.
As time went on, she came to see the question about her final meal as beside the point. The menu she would choose didn't really matter as long as it was soigné—prepared with respect for the ingredients and the process, cooked with care and presented with love.
In the summer of 2004, Julia had been in failing health following complications from knee surgery, and after a brief hospitalization, she refused further treatment for a massive infection. She wanted to be at home, having decided her time had come to "slip off the raft." One August night, just four days before her ninety-second birthday, she asked her longtime assistant to make a batch of soup. Stephanie took down Julia's own copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking and opened it to page forty-three. She knew the recipe by heart but wanted "The Book" nearby. Soon a cloud of rich scents rising from the bubbling beef stock and onions sautéing in butter—lots of butter—filled the apartment.
The fragrant aroma worked its magic. Julia savored the bowl of her own French onion soup. A beloved dinner companion that night was a wild little black-and-white kitten named Minou, who shared Julia's home in a retirement community near Santa Barbara. Full of feline joie de vivre, Minou was the soul mate who brightened Julia's days. When she was ready for bed, the kitten curled up in his customary spot on the right side of the pillow. Minou kept watch through the night as Julia's charmed life ebbed away, where she said it all truly began, in the company of cats.
