Julia’s Cats

by Patricia Barey

  When Paul retired to his studio, Julia went to her alcove to tap out recipes. On a quest for the holy grail of baking, the secret to making real French bread in American ovens, she churned out golden crusty loaves almost every day. Even as he fought an expanding waistline, Paul was only too happy to assess the merits of each buttery loaf: “I shall eat it, my pleasure all the greater because of the partner facing me across the table.”

  At lunchtime, he headed toward the slap-slap of Julia pummeling her yeasty dough. The insistent miaous of a hungry cat nipping at her ankles set off a round of futile but fond chiding: “Mimi! Ferme ta petite bouche! C’est défendu de faire ce bruit. Non, non, non!” (Mimi, shut your little mouth. I forbid you to make such noise. No, no, no!) Her falsetto scoldings made more racket than the cat’s begging, but she and Minimouche both seemed fond of their little game.

  After a half tumbler of Côtes de Provence and a hunk of bread slathered with sweet butter, it was back to the studio, where Paul often painted until his fingertips grew numb. Meanwhile, Julia and Minimouche grabbed un petit somme (a little catnap) while waiting for the next batch of dough to rise.

  In the late afternoon they took long walks with the kitty prancing along beside them. They loved to watch their high-leaping pussy pirouette after butterflies and surge up and down in the high grass with a rolling rhythm that reminded them of an antelope in the savanna. Paul, ever the worrier, fretted that their kitten might stray too far, but she always found her way back to them and flopped at their feet panting like a dog. The blissful days followed “like pearls on a priceless necklace,” he wrote. “We fairly roll in them, like pussies in catnip.”

  Some winter evenings the fierce mistral winds set the trees dancing and rattled the shutters, making their petite maison seem more like Wuthering Heights. They lit the fireplace and tried to ignore the howling and creaking. While Julia mashed garlic for ragout Provençale, Paul read to her from a back issue of the New Yorker. If they could get a signal, they watched the news flickering on a small black-and-white TV.

  Minimouche had little patience for fashionably late dinners and by eight was loudly complaining, which drew another affectionate scold: “Qu’est que c’est que cette bruit, petit monstre?” (What’s up with this noise, little monster?) But some juicy giblets always landed in her dish.

  When the winds calmed and heavens cleared, they donned heavy sweaters to sip a nightcap on the patio under a moonless sky. In winter the Big Dipper hung low over la Peetch, stars flashed like a million fireflies, and an occasional satellite slowly arced toward the horizon while the tiny purring machine settled in Julia’s lap.

  After they turned in for the night, the kitty sometimes disappeared into the blackness and they speculated about her mysterious nocturnal life. Did she hitch a ride on a broomstick with one of the local witches? The village gossips whispered about a certain farmer’s wife who was said to practice the black arts. Or was Minimouche headed for a secret tryst, a rendezvous with a petit ami? Time would tell.

  “NO CATERWAULING”

  THE STRING OF wonder days ended when Julia and Paul returned to Boston to finish A Dinner at the White House, a TV special that aired in March of 1968 and certified her status as a bona fide national treasure. They counted on a quick return to their charmed life in Provence and their Minimouche who, Simca confirmed, was “in a family way.”

  Julia longed to play midwife, but a routine visit to her doctor brought shocking news. She had breast cancer and would need a radical mastectomy. Although she downplayed its seriousness, Paul, who fretted if his “wifelet” caught a cold or complained of a tummyache, was distraught. But Julia preferred to focus on returning to la Peetch and her poussiequette: “We were so looking forward to being there tomorrow afternoon, standing on that lovely terrace, smelling the lovely air, patting Pastis, stroking Mlle Minimouche.”

  Typically stoic, Julia determined to put the surgery behind her: “No radiation, no chemotherapy, no caterwauling.” As soon as the doctor gave the okay, they flew to Provence for her long recuperation. Monitoring the pussycat pregnancy was just the distraction they needed. She wrote to Simca, who was teaching in Paris, “Mlle Minimouche de la Brague et de Bramafam-Pitchoune still has her kittens inside her. Jeanne said we shall have to wait for the turn of the moon! We have set out a nice box for her in la Poulailler.”

  In a corner of the henhouse, they lined a cardboard box with shredded paper and cut a hole just big enough for Minimouche to fit through. When they thought the time was right—eyeing the cat’s tummy and not the moon—they nestled the mama-to-be inside the box. But the pampered kitty wasn’t accustomed to such rustic accommodations. Paul ruefully wrote Charlie that the kitty was back on their kitchen floor in half an hour.

  Everyone in the compound went on kitten watch, but Jeanne, the Bramafam caretaker and font of country wisdom, preached patience and correctly predicted: “Now that the new moon has come the cat will have her kittens.” Like proud parents, Paul and Julia announced to family back home the arrival of five adorable kittens on the fourth of May.

  The chatons were soon all spoken for and Minimouche seemed ready to resume her life—and midnight trysts. Paul thought it was time for permanent birth control, since one Minimere was enough to keep Bramafam in kittens. So off they went, “to Grasse at 8 AM with Julie, carrying our Mini-Mouche imprisoned in a cardboard carton. On its open top was tied a dish-drying rack so she couldn’t jump out.”

  A place in the soleil

  In the coming weeks Julia empathized with her fellow surgery patient. She still wore a rubber sleeve to prevent complications from her own operation, and dutifully performed painful exercises in order to regain full use of her shoulder and arm. Partly to placate a worried Paul, she took long daily naps and let Jeanne help her in the kitchen.

  As always, the relaxed rhythms of life at la Peetch cast a restful spell. Summer’s full bounty was all around them in alfalfa fields, olive groves, and hillsides covered in every shade of pink. Farm women in big straw hats with white cloth bags around their necks harvested the roses that ended up in the perfume factories in Grasse. Day and night the air smelled of honey.

  Gradually Julia found her way back to the kitchen, filling the house with her favorite fragrances: garlic, tomatoes, roasting chickens, and baking apples. The effect was magical for both patients. Paul gleefully reported that one morning, “as though Merlin had waved his wand over her, the little cat walked out of her sick-bay, ate a whole dishful of hamburger, drank half a puddleful of hose-water, rushed up an olive tree & was cured.”

  In a parallel burst of energy, a reinvigorated Julia began to complain to Paul that she’d had enough of peace and quiet: “Breakfast at the same house, then work, then lunch, then work, then dinner, then work, then bed. Every day the same! No friends, no trips, no nothing!” Paul had to agree that it was time for the “French Cheffie” to return to Cambridge and get back into the thick of things.

  “UNE MAISON SANS CHAT…”

  WHEN JULIA AND Paul returned to Cambridge in the summer of 1968, they landed in the thick of things they hadn’t at all expected. Their house on Irving Street was within shouting distance of noisy political protests in Harvard Yard. They sympathized with the antiwar and civil rights demonstrations, but hated the climate of fear. When a brick flew through the window of a Harvard faculty neighbor, Paul decided to install an elaborate burglar alarm.

  Feeling vaguely as if their home were under siege, Julia longed for the safety of la Peetch and the comforting companionship of her poussiequette: “We keep thinking we hear Mlle Minimouche calling to be let in—would that we did.” She missed having a pussycat underfoot at Irving Street, so when friends asked her to kitty-sit, she jumped at the chance.

  Geoffrey arrived one evening in a large blue carrying case. After formal introductions, both Paul and Julia took an immediate shine to the big, orange, “somewhat neurotic” cat. Geoffrey needed pills twice a day, and given their advanced kitty nursing skills, they
felt sure pill-pushing would be a snap. On the first try, Geoffrey opened wide, said “Meow!” and with perfect timing, Paul stuffed in a large capsule. Pas de problème! He smugly repeated the technique the next day, and the day after that. Later in the week, Julia’s slippered feet felt something squish. Looking behind the sofa, she found Geoffrey’s entire stash of soggy pills and came up with a more foolproof delivery system. She wrapped the pill in goose liver pâté and tossed it in the air. Geoffrey snapped it up before it hit the ground. Fait accompli.

  Julia was used to hearing her voice compared to a foghorn, flute, sliding trombone, or worse, so she got a kick out of the odd sounds that came from Geoffrey’s voice box. She chortled to Simca that when he wanted to roam the neighborhood, “he comes up to say ‘Qweek, I want to go out.’ Then he disappears under the bushes and we find him later sitting by the front door, saying ‘Qweek, I want to come in.’ “

  In no time at all, the visiting royalty ruled the Child household. He thrived on his vastly improved menus and grew more fond of his foster parents by the day. When Julia and Paul went out for an evening, Geoffrey faithfully waited for them on the pillar beside their front gate like a majestic stone lion. When Charlie and Freddie came for an overnight stay with their overly affectionate Briard, Geoffrey tolerated the slobbery canine but seemed glad to see them go so he could reclaim his privileged status.

  A short time after bidding Geoffrey a sad adieu, Julia welcomed another houseguest: “A little white pussy cat has come to make her home with us for a few days; she had been abandoned, and was so loving and appealing we could not resist.” She bathed the bedraggled orphan, fattened her up with freshly ground hamburger, and lavished affection on her temporary lap cat until she found it a good home. Word of her hospitality soon hit the feline street, bringing a string of strays to her door. One liked to take his afternoon naps in a big olivewood salad bowl on Julia’s pantry shelf.

  She embraced them all: “I do like a house with a pussy in it!” Every furry visitor proved her mantra, “Une maison sans chat, c’est la vie sans soleil.” (A house without a cat is life without sunshine.)

  Let me in, s’il vous plaît

  “MY GOODNESS! IT’S JULIER CHILES!”

  AFTER A FEW years of black-and-white reruns, The French Chef made a triumphant return in luscious color. Viewers thrilled to the eye-popping red berries and snowy crème pâtissière of Julia’s tarte aux fraises, the electric green of blanched haricots, and the rainbow hues of fresh mountain trout. A much larger budget let Julia and Paul take a production crew to France so viewers could see for themselves all the places she’d been breathlessly describing.

  Off they went in the spring of 1970 to the dining room in Rouen where she had first tasted heavenly French food. They filmed Chef Dorin creating his famous pressed duck tableside, and then it was on to Paris to watch baker Raymond Calvel pull trays of baguettes from his brick oven. Julia led viewers through the aisles of Dehillerin, the “Old Curiosity Shop” of cookware, stuffed floor to ceiling with every gadget under the sun.

  In Provence they explored the sprawling market on the edge of the Old City in Nice, a noisy bazaar of stalls heaped with the bounty of the countryside. Julia always stopped there on the way to la Peetch to buy armloads of tulips and tins of liver pâté to placate her kitty after a long absence. Close to home, they visited the ancient stone olive press at Opio to scoop giant ripe olives from a barrel of brine with a special olive-wood ladle.

  Everywhere Julia went, she ran into “J-Ws,” a friendly but persistent gaggle of Julia-Watchers who greeted her like an old friend. Even in busy airports, parents thrust children upon her for a snapshot and regaled her with their own culinary adventures: “Finally I can make crepes!” And misadventures: “My soufflés just won’t pouf up like yours!” Maître d’s and waiters were excited to see her, and other diners always had to know what she was eating. Once in an airport restaurant, an Irish priest stopped by her table to express the gratitude so many seemed to feel: “God bless you, Miss Childs, ’tis a noble thing yer doin’.”

  Julia was always gracious, though she and Paul sometimes ducked their heads when they heard loud American voices approaching. During the filming in Nice, a woman interrupted a crew lunch to exclaim, “My goodness! It’s Julier Chiles!… My daughter and I watch your program every Thursday night back home in Michigan. My friends just won’t believe it when I tell them I actually saw you in person!”

  At times fan affection went too far. After the TV tour of Provence aired, the more intrepid J-Ws showed up in the untouristy village of Plascassier. Ignoring the gate, they trudged up the private road to snoop around the Bramafam compound, peering through the windows and French doors. The cognoscenti could tell which house was hers by the cats lounging on the patio or purring by the kitchen door. If Julia was home, she’d stop what she was doing to bellow a hearty Bonjooour! She’d sign the books they lugged and pose for “just one” picture, before politely excusing herself and sending the starstruck intruders on their way.

  When fellow cat lovers discovered she was one of them, they showered her with cat trinkets, hotpads, aprons, nightshirts, and all kinds of cat-themed clothing, along with pictures of themselves with their own cats. One fan, who somehow learned that one of Julia’s Provence cats had died, offered to deliver a silver-haired pussycat “who looks like our dear departed” to the house on Irving Street.

  You wash, I’ll dry

  Sometimes the mail brought strange requests. One writer hoped Julia would endorse her paper on “Cat Cookery,” filled with detailed recipes from cultures that viewed cats as suitable dining fare. Julia was repulsed by the whole idea, but still sent the woman a polite “I’ll get back to you.”

  When Julia and her pussycat were shown cooking together in her own kitchen, it struck a chord. One cat-loving cook wrote, “Since I saw you in Bon Appétit photographed at your farmhouse in Provence with the cat in the kitchen sink, I have really felt you are my kind of people.”

  Many fans found a special way to pay homage. For decades, countless well-fed cats from Boston to Bozeman answered to “Julia” when dinner was served.

  A FINE STRIPED TIGER

  BY THE SUMMER of 1977, Julia had taped more than two hundred French Chef episodes and finished an exhausting tour to promote From Julia Child’s Kitchen. She and Paul looked forward to the lazy routines at la Peetch—writing letters, pruning rosebushes, and eating lunch under their mulberry tree with a pussycat frolicking nearby.

  Paul needed an extended sabbatical even more than Julia. Three years earlier, she’d convinced him to see about the chest pains he kept shrugging off, and he underwent triple bypass surgery. It probably saved his life, but their elation quickly faded. Julia confided to Simca that he had suffered small strokes during the operation and now often complained of being in a mental fog. She feared that her dynamic life partner would never be quite the same.

  Mutual adoration society

  More damaging than the crise cardiaque was the blow to Paul’s self-esteem. The eloquent writer who composed poetry in French and English was sometimes at a loss for words, especially when he tried to converse in French, leaving Julia to deal with shopkeepers and train conductors. He often felt frustrated and forlorn in crowds and was happiest filling his days with painting and photography, talents that didn’t forsake him. He put his faith in the invigorating air of Provence, which had helped restore Julia to full health after her own surgery.

  Their peaceful days were enlivened by the adorable poussiequette Simca had waiting for them. He was a fine striped tiger, Julia bragged in a letter to her cat-loving friend M. F. K. Fisher. In homage to other favorites, they named him Minouche, a cross between “Minou” and “Minimouche,” but like all of Julia’s kitties, he was usually called by the affectionate Julia-ism “Poussiequette.”

  Minouche was one of those cats who saw no compelling reason to make up his mind. This feline Hamlet wanted to be in and wanted to be out, as he pleased, and if the nimbl
e puss found a window closed or a door latched, he made his displeasure emphatically clear. He was most vocal in the middle of an afternoon siesta or early-morning snooze. Julia had a habit from their Paris days of padding into Paul’s room, setting the alarm for eight, and curling up beside him for a few more z’s. The restless Minouche developed his own habit of pouncing at the precise moment they drifted off.

  Sleepless, cranky, and exasperated by Minouche’s roaming ways, Paul engineered an ingenious solution. It took some patient explaining to the skeptical carpenter who came to install a special window over the kitchen sink that let Minouche come and go as he fancied. It was a win-win. Minouche could wander in and out to his heart’s content, while Julia and Paul could dally in dreamland a bit longer without visits from a perambulating pussycat.

  CATS ’N’ ROSES

  JULIA WAS NOW a genuine superstar, the biggest public television had ever produced. A namesake Muppet lived on Sesame Street, and the real-life Julia cooked spaghetti with Mr. Rogers in his Neighborhood. Later he sent an exuberant mash note that captured her unique appeal for all ages: “Thank you for spaghetti and YOU!… You evoke a kind of loving admiration from those you meet.… You’re a grand person.”

  The food world, tiny as it was then, recognized a good thing and welcomed her warmly. Until Julia came along, cooking on TV belonged to stern nutritionists or glamour girls like Betty Furness and Bess Myerson, whose culinary expertise began and ended with opening refrigerator doors. The exception was James Beard, who first appeared in the forties on tiny black-and-white screens that could barely contain his ample frame. He invited Julia to teach at his New York cooking school, and became one of her most ardent boosters and a dear friend who happily shared the kitchen limelight. The public found them both endearing—jovial, bighearted, and unpretentious. Julia and Jim made food fun.