Like Shakespeare, I think Julia Child has become mythologized, raised up to an unrealistic, larger-than-life ideal in our minds and hearts.

Also, like Shakespeare, that mythic stature doesn’t bother me a bit.

When I travel, I always bring back-up books, especially if I know I’ll finish the current book I’m reading while I’m travelling. (I was a Girl Scout; I make it a point to be prepared, at least when it comes to books.) On a recent trip, I brought what I believe will be a fantastic novel called Plainsong, and I brought My Life in France, Julia Child’s memoir about her time living in France with her husband Paul. When the time came to choose between the two, I went with Julia.

Lobster killer (Pic | youwatchedthat.blogspot.com)

The story is mostly familiar now after Julie & Julia, a movie that I find I can watch over and over again. (Though, in the interest of full disclosure, I can watch most movies over and over, and more often than not, they have very little cinematic merit. Be that as it may.) I have a particular soft spot for Julie & Julia. I would love to say I identify with Julia Child, well-traveled, discovering a new love (cooking), living in Paris, and eating fabulous French food everyday. But I don’t. I’m very rarely a Julia; I’m frequently a Julie. I have been Julie Powell time and again, and it was in a spell of epic Powelldom that I discovered beurre blanc sauce.

When I first started writing the CSAcation column, I was fresh out of my MFA program, the full weight of my new, post-MFA life had hit me, and I had to face a wretched fact:  my writing life–the life I went into debt over, and shed tears over, and lost so much sleep over–would never be the same. I was no longer a student, an identity I had held for twenty years. Things had not turned out how I thought they would, and I was disappointed. I had spiraled into a months-long period of mourning the loss of my former life; I have no doubt that it was an obnoxious time for my roommates, and I attempted to make up for my crappy mood/behavior by cooking meals for them.

One night, at the very end of summer crab season, I set about cooking Sunday dinner for myself and my roommates. I threw in whatever was around the kitchen—onions, zucchini, yellow squash, garlic, and crab meat left over from making crab cakes. I sautéed them in olive oil and butter with salt and pepper, and I turned, not to Julia, but to The Joy of Cooking, and I chose a beurre blanc sauce, completely unfazed by the process of reducing wine and mincing onions (in place of shallots). We needed sauce for that pasta concoction that I was throwing together spur of the moment, and beurre blanc was what I decided on (heck, I was already drinking the wine, might as well make a sauce from it). In a rare moment of culinary serendipity, the stars aligned, butter and wine emulsified, and the result was everything I needed—a creamy sauce, satisfaction, and the promise that things would get better. With that kind of sauce, I could be anything I wanted, do whatever I put my mind to. I could be a Julia.

Pasta with Summer Squash, Crab Meat, and Beurre Blanc Sauce (Pic | Andrea Nolan)

This week, when I got zucchini and yellow squash from the Five Points Farm Market, I knew I needed that dish again. I am three seasons deep into this CSAcation game, and I’ve been through enough Powell funks to (mostly) trust that they will pass. And I’ve also gained the wisdom that being a Julia or being a Julie isn’t a mutually exclusive way of being. What I learned, both by reading Julie & Julia, and now by reading My Life in France, is that Julia Child was just a woman who relocated with her husband for his job—like so many women in Hampton Roads and beyond. She was fresh out of government service, a role she had held for several years, one that had taken her around the world and introduced her to her husband. She was looking for something to focus on, something that she could own.

Julie Powell was doing the same thing. She moved to the outer-boroughs of New York City because the rent was cheaper and it was close to her husband’s office. She had seen a series of goals and dreams fall apart, and she was looking for something to belong to, something to give her a focus. Some way to identify herself on her own terms. She’s a bit more my type of cook/woman—she’s messy and moody and frequently ridiculous; she picks fights with people, and she is deeply flawed.

Julia in her TV kitchen | unitcrit.blogspot.com

Mythic creatures are flawed too, of course, but we don’t turn to Olympus for deeply flawed, human-like characters. Nobody says “I really like Zeus because I find him so relatable to my life.” We turn to Olympus for gods and goddesses whose charms and powers and, sure, flaws, are bigger than humanity. Norfolk is a far cry from Olympus. Julie Powell is a far cry from Julia Child. This is the nature of larger-than-life stories. I started this week’s CSAcation by saying that I am not a Julia. I’m not being mean or overly critical of myself. It’s just that all I can see of Julia Child is likely what Julie Powell saw:  the charming culinary goddess–the myth. No matter how hard I try to see her as a real person who probably made mistakes in the kitchen and certainly fought with her husband, I can’t see her that way. Try picturing Shakespeare playing with his kids, cleaning dishes, being ordinary. It doesn’t work. They’re just not ordinary.

I can’t un-think of Julia Child as the lady who changed the way Americans thought about cooking and French food. And so in those moments when I need to cling to a Julie or a Julia, I tend towards the Julies of the world—the girls like me who feel uprooted, who are trying to figure out some way to be in the world that makes sense.Who are trying to be extraordinary on their own terms. Though when I stop to think about it, Julia Child likely started out as a Julie, and that’s where the hope comes in. Maybe it’s possible to be a Julie, and a Julia, and a Dana, and have that work out. Maybe it’s possible to find salvation in a butter-based sauce.

Pasta with Summer Squash, Crab Meat, and Beurre Blanc Sauce

¼ to ½ box linguine

Cook the pasta according to package instructions. Meanwhile, make the sauce and the squash mixture.

For the sauce:

6 tablespoons dry white wine

2 tablespoons white wine vinegar (I substituted lemon juice)

3 tablespoons minced shallots (I substituted about a tablespoon minced onion)

Salt and pepper to taste

1 tablespoon heavy cream

8 tablespoons cold butter, preferably unsalted, cut into at least eight pieces

Combine wine, vinegar, shallots, and salt and pepper over medium heat in a small sauce pan and simmer, uncovered, until cooked down by three-quarters. Stir in cream. Remove from the heat and add butter, whisking constantly, one piece at a time until the sauce is creamy and whitened. The key is to keep whisking and never to let the butter melt all the way (or else it will separate).

For the squash mixture:

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 zucchini squash

1 yellow squash

1 clove minced garlic

1 tablespoon chopped onion

½ pound crab meat (I used backfin meat)

Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add garlic and onion, and sauté 1-2 minutes. Add zucchini and yellow squash and cook until tender. Add crab meat and cook, stirring frequently, until heated through.

Combine the squash mixture with the pasta, then add the sauce. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve with kasseri cheese and bread.

Proportions can be changed to feed more or fewer people, or to have a saucier pasta. You also may want to try another type of pasta, perhaps farfalle. I served it with toasted French bread, spread with pesto, and topped with bruschetta and kasseri cheese. This recipe can be modified to suit whatever you have on hand. It was born out of a creative moment, one of those meals without rules, so feel free to substitute.

Eat well, CSAcationers, and take care.

The deadline to sign up for your summer CSA through Five Points Farm Market is June 19. Visit their website for more information.