Too many cooks.

Spoilers for HBO's Julia show, I guess.

DanceWithNyanko via Wikimedia Commons

While I’ve been lying around and healing up, my mother and I watched all of the recent HBO show about Julia Child (fittingly named… Julia). This was slightly an exercise in self-torture, as I currently have to eat a close-to-no-fat diet and can have no alcohol, and every episode of Julia is full of loving shots of butter, wine, and cocktails. I found myself grimly fantasizing at a few points about a plotline where Julia Child couldn’t eat butter anymore. See how you like it, Julia!

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t really wish this on you. Or on me.¹ Please, somebody, anybody, let me have some butter. I mean don’t, it will cause me excruciating agony for the time being, but maybe I could smell it or something. You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.

Anyway… I don’t usually like shows like Julia—that is to say, period dramas whose big selling point is their meticulous recreation of the past. I sort of assume that I have Mad Men to blame for the exi…