Julia Child in Cambridge kitchen

On what would have been her 100th birthday, Julia Child is remembered for her remarkable mastery of cooking, her bravery, her wit. But what I remember about her is her unfailing curiosity.

By the time I met Julia, her TV days were past, and she was feted as a legend, a sort of culinary fairy godmother. Though I had helped cover her 80th birthday party and had been to her house in Cambridge, I wasn’t  in her inner circle. But after her 9oth birthday, when Julia was moving back to California for the last time, packing up her Cambridge kitchen for the Smithsonian, Sheryl Julian, my editor at the Boston Globe,  invited me along on a last lunch with Julia.

The food at that lunch was unremarkable, though I do recall Julia’s pointed, if polite, comment when iced tea in a can was placed before her . “What, you don’t brew it here?” she asked with slightly raised eyebrows. And I also remember the conversation. Julia asked me all about my growing up, as intently interested in my rural, almost communal, upbringing in Kansas as I was fascinated about her storied career. She was engaged, funny, and observant. One couldn’t have had a better dining companion.

No wonder everyone loved her, I remember thinking. Yes, Julia irrevocably changed Americans’ idea of food. But her way of connecting vibrantly with almost everyone she met  made her a star.

I’ve been having a spate of bad luck — appliance-wise. Well, maybe not so much bad luck as just the passage of time. You know how it goes — you buy a pasta maker or a sewing machine or even a foreign car or a leather jacket, and it soldiers on through the years. You forget when you bought it or where or sometimes why, meanwhile fussing over the gadgets that seem to die almost before they’re out of the packaging — cellphones, Ipods, even laptops. Do toaster ovens ever reach the 2-year mark?

And because you take the warhorses for granted, you never expect the disloyalty, the slap in the face, when they fail. Making tortellini for Christmas dinner last December, I realized that the dial controlling the rollers on my pasta maker was stuck. It had long been touchy, but now it wouldn’t budge. Then, again, I got it in the first months I moved to Boston and fell in love with the North End, so I sighed and chalked it up to age. Then, I started to sew a hem, and my old Viking stalled — irrevocably it turned out — refusing another stitch of service. My PC is pretty much dead, although it lasted much longer than a computer is supposed to.

So then how do you explain — and I hesitate, fearing I’m going to jinx this– the Kitchen Aid mixer than my late mother-in-law gave me at least 25 years ago. Every week, it faithfully churns up bread dough and kneads it. In between, it’s been known to make chocolate cakes, whip cream, and fashion Italian meringue all in one morning. It’s not glamorous, and its only bell and whistle is a sausage stuffer attachment I rarely use, but it seems to be indestructible. Once, many years ago, while kneading a stiff dough, it bounced off the counter onto the floor. I unplugged it, picked it up, put it back on the counter, turned it on, and finished the bread making. It’s the Maggie Smith of mixers. Long may she live!!!

Ray Gillespie and me

Last Saturday, Raymond Gillespie, chef at Salumeria Italiana in the North End, and I sacrificed a perfect beach day to demonstrate Rubio Aged Balsamic at Shubie’s in Marblehead. Here we are (Ray is the cute one on the left).

Most of the customers were busy gathering provisions for boating excursions (lots of chips, takeout, beer, and cheeses). But plenty stopped by to sample Rubio over ice cream — even the skeptics were won over– straight up, and in a cocktail with vodka, bitters and soda water. Shubie’s is a beautiful store, and we had fun talking to people, changing their views about vinegar. Of course, there were some who’d recently been to Italy or were already customers of the North End store. Those we didn’t have to convince.

When the Highland Park Scotch tasting started in late afternoon (hard to compete with free Scotch), we packed up our recipes and brochures, and shopped for wine and French cheeses — a little cross-cultural exchange is always good in food.

Porcinis gathered by Benjamin Maleson

I’ve been on a writing hiatus while my husband recuperates from a knee replacement. Not a hiatus from cooking — that I’ve been doing regularly. (One bit of advice — major knee surgery is a very good appetite suppressant for the patient, and not good at all for the home nurse. Maybe that’s because I’m a much better cook than nurse. Anyway, I digress.)

Right before Steve had surgery, I ran into the mushroom man on Hanover in the North End. As any restaurant chef knows, that’s Bernard Maleson, forager extraordinaire, who provides wild funghi to many restaurants all over Boston. He works out of his car, so if you see a small stationwagon with lots and lots of mushrooms in it, and a man with a long beard, long hair and the look of having just appeared from under the forest canopy, you may be meeting up with the Mushroom Man.

That day, Benjamin was delivering to his regular customers and also selling porcinis and morels that he had just gathered. I bought a couple of huge porcinis (in photo above).Then I walked around to Salem Street to Mercato del Mare and bought halibut. The dish I made was simple: I sliced the porcinis, sauteed them in good olive oil  (Frantoia from Salumeria Italiana),  a little butter, and chopped, fresh garlic, and then added lots of parsley and a touch of balsamic vinegar to finish. The porcinis went on top of halibut, into a very hot oven, with a splash of white wine in the baking pan. About 25 minutes the fish was perfect, and the perfume of the dish filled the house. 

It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve seen Benjamin and his mushrooms. I wonder what he’s found lately?