Backstage with Julia (32 page)

The toasts we gave that evening, unlike those at the public gatherings, didn't tout Julia's many accomplishments or extol her generous contributions to the field of gastronomy. We poked fun at her. In my toast, I accused her of being a real pain. "You just never let up. You told me to write magazine articles. I did. Then you said write more and I did. Then you said to write a book. I did. You just never know when to stop pushing."

Before my bottom hit the chair, Julia shot back, "When are you going to write another book?"

So at eighty, with her energy, passion, and quick wit still intact, she kept going and doing as she always had, or perhaps more so. She seemed determined to pack as much living into her life as was humanly possible.

In September 1992, Julia and I had plans to attend the Oxford Symposium on Food. About a month before we were to leave, Julia learned that Sarah Nops, a director of London's Cordon Bleu cooking school, was planning a reception to introduce the local community to the American Institute of Wine and Food. "Well, we have to go," Julia told me, and we changed our travel dates to include a stay in London. Then about two weeks before we left for London, I received an invitation from Anna Tasca Lanza to visit her in Sicily. The contessa would be conducting cooking classes at her grand, twelve-hundred-acre country estate, Regaleali, which is both a vineyard and a working farm that produces all the food for the estate. It was an opportunity to experience Sicilian cuisine at its best, but the classes began two days after the end of the Oxford Symposium, and as much as I wanted to go, it just didn't seem possible.

"It would be fun," I said to Julia. "But I don't think we can do it."

"Why not?" she retorted.

"Well, I don't know. Seems like a lot of juggling; we'd have to change our tickets again and we'd have to pack for the weather in both places." In spite of the thousands of miles we'd traveled together, her art of fitting everything into one small suitcase had never rubbed off on me, and I imagined the several suitcases I would be forced to schlep in order to accommodate both climates.

"My travel agent can take care of the tickets, and I always pack the same clothes," she said. That usually meant a couple of pairs of slacks, one dark skirt, several colorful blouses, one pair of black pumps, and her New Balance sneakers. It all fit into one manageable suitcase. "I think we should do it," she said. "Why not?" I had no good reason why not, especially since my sons were by then in boarding school and I didn't have to be home for them or a manuscript.

"No reason—let's do it," I said.

"Good. I'll take care of the plane reservations."

"Okay. I'll find a place in London for us to stay." I already had in mind to ask Dagmar and Walter Sullivan if we could stay in their London flat. They were in California, and I knew they wouldn't be using it. When I told Julia the Sullivans said it was fine for us to stay at the flat, she decided to fill our already full schedule with more activities—and, as it turned out, some classic Julia fun.

That trip to the Oxford Symposium was our second or third, and in previous years British friends had generously entertained us at parties in their homes and treated us to meals at restaurants and private eating clubs. Julia decided that since we were going to be in a private flat, we should host a thank-you party.

A friend of mine from Rhode Island, Hope Hudner, had plans to stay with us in London, and the three of us organized a lovely, rather sophisticated cocktail party and sent invitations to a host of English friends and foodies. Following the party, a group of us went to dinner, and when Julia, Hope, and I returned to the flat, we changed into our nightclothes and regrouped in the living room for girl talk. Ever-courteous person that she is, Hope began to plan what kind of thank-you would be fitting for the Sullivans. Julia thought we should take photos of us in the flat and attach them to notes. Hope had a Polaroid camera with her that could be set to take automatic pictures, and we began to say "souf-
flé
" for the camera. Then Julia McWilliams took over and convinced us that simple photos were a bore. The Sullivans' flat held numerous pieces of valuable, irreplaceable porcelain that had been in the family since who knows when. Julia decided that we should take pictures that looked as though we were smashing all that china and send them to the Sullivans. Ever so gingerly, we held the porcelain in precarious poses and took our photos. I can't even begin to imagine what Dagmar must have thought when she opened our thank-you notes.

The next day, Julia went to the hospital to visit her good friend Elizabeth David, the British cookbook author, who was very ill. I asked Julia if she wanted me to go with her, but she said it was probably best if she went alone. When she returned, I asked with appropriate gravity, "How did it go?"

"We had a good time," Julia said. Turns out that when Elizabeth saw Julia, she told her to bring her some decent food or she would expire on the spot. Julia went shopping and returned to Elizabeth's room with pâté de foie gras, caviar, and champagne or vodka—I don't recall which. I only remember Julia saying that they spread the contraband on the bed and had a picnic that was hardly medically sanctioned.

"Weren't you afraid you'd get caught?" I asked her.

"No," she said. I was traveling with an octogenarian delinquent!