Friday, August 13, 2004 I don’t know what to say. Julia Child was ninety-one years old when she died, late yesterday, in her sleep. It’s the death that all of us want, after a life so full it would seem she was one of history’s true lucky souls, if only luck had had anything to do with it. She enriched the lives of thousands – my life she quite literally turned around. She died well-loved, and I hope she died well-fed. There is no tragedy here. It’s a day for remembrance, and celebration. So why am I so fucking sad? I heard this morning. I was working on my book – I’m always working on my book, only “freaking out over” would probably be a better term – when the emails started pouring in. Condolences from my relatives, and my friends, and my blog-friends, comforting me as if I was suffering the loss of a family member. I never met Julia Child. I have no particular reason to think she’d even have liked me if I had. I have no claim over the woman at all, unless it’s the c