Okay, Julia. I'm pretty close to done with you. My arteries just aren't up for this. Nor is my wallet.
So, here's the scoop. If you saw Julie and Julia, you might remember the scene toward the beginning where Amy Adams is having a little moment talking about butter. She's basically having a verbal love affair. And, I was buying it. I have purchased a lot of butter in the last few weeks. And today I weighed four pounds more than usual. I'm not saying they're connected, but they're probably connected.
Anyway. I've made Supremes de Volaille a Brun. Sounds fancy, huh? Not really. It's chicken breasts sauteed in butter. With a brown butter sauce. Served with buttered potatoes and buttered peas. I mean, come on. Are you sensing a theme here? Butter. Butter. Butter. So much butter. I am getting more than a little sick of it. When M took his first bite of the chicken, he bore a quizzical expression...one that said, "seriously, what are you feeding me?" He asked what was in the dish.
"Nothing really," I answered. "Just a little parsley and a squirt or two of lemon juice in butter."
The light bulb flashed on.
"Butter, that's it," he replied.
When the first thing that hits your palate is butter, there is too dang much butter. I mean, the chicken was good, but if I'm going to give myself a heart attack, I'm going to add some flavor and make fried chicken the way I always have. And I'll make mashed potatoes. Julia's buttered peas can stay.
I've also made another clafouti, and it was good, but it wasn't great, and those suckers do not keep well. That's a strike against in this house. We like to keep a dessert around for awhile.
So, Julia isn't faring well around here. I find myself looking over her recipes and consulting Ina Garten's versions. Then I remember that I love Alice Waters. And Orangette. And I've decided that, for the most part, I'll only plan on immersing myself in French cuisine if I'm in France. So, toodles, Julia. For now.
I'm going to make Orangette's tried and true chocolate cake.