Last year Junior gave us one rather dangerous book to read as a birthday present.
Julia Child's My Life In France.
Let us take an exerpt:
"The pièce de résistance for the evening was a mammoth galantine de volaille, which took me three days to creat and had been adopted from a recipe in Larousse Gastronomique. First you make a superb buillion - from veal leg, feet and bones - for poaching. Then you debone a nice plump four-pound chicken, and marinate the meat with finely ground pork and veal strips in Cognac and truffles. Then you reform the chicken, stuffing it with a nice row of truffles wrapped in farce and a fresh strip of pork fat, which you hope ends up in the center. You tie up this bundle and poach it in the delicious buillion. Once it is cooked, you let it cool and then decorate it - I used green swirls of blanched leeks, red dots of pimiento, brown-black accents of sliced truffle, and yellow splashes of butter. The whole wasthen covered with beautiful clarified-bouillion jelly."
When we first started reading the book we immediately had to stop after a few chapters, when Julia Child started talking about her arrival in France.
She has this passionate way of writing and describes food with such detail that, if we were not hungry or eating, we would be while reading her book; and if we were eating a meal and reading her book, we would still get hungry because her meals sounds so much better.
Either way, we lose.
Which is why, while we had this book since last year and Junior's waiting on us to finish the book so he can borrow it, we've yet to finish it (and us being able to finish a book relatively fast). It's like, um, having to lick envelopes to seal them, with the adhesive being salty that for every envelope you lick and seal, you have to stop to drink lots of water, and unable to continue for a while.
We really wonder how to finish this book.