I looked down to read the next sentence and there it was: one big blob of blood, quickly soaking into the virginal white page and turning from a reflective dark red to a dull rust brown. No way was this coming out. I quickly used a finger to swipe away that which was still pooling on the page and wiped my finger clean on my shirt.
And that’s when I saw more, streaking down the side of the book, touching the edge of every page, seeping in just enough that with every turn of a page promising white, there was an eye catching, creeping brown. And this all seems appropriate.
For the last few years I’ve owned Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking.* I’ve read it a few times and flipped the pages casually dreaming of what I’d make but only now did I force myself to find a time slot just big enough to break it in with a classic: beef bourguignon. It just happened that flinging around some stew beef I got a bit sloppy.
With most books I’d be damned well pissed at myself for ruining them with carelessness. But with Juilia its alright; in the kitchen anything goes. And a little baptism by blood never hurt a cookbook.
*I give mad props to myself for buying it before Julie and Julia became all the rage. Follower? Nay! Trend setter, I am.