When I heard that my local library, the Westport Public Library, had chosen Julia Child’s memoir, My Life in France, as the Westport Reads for this year, I was thrilled. Not because I am a great cook and have been inspired by Julia’s recipes. Far from it – in fact, I am a failure at following recipes, and the ones created by Julia Child are well beyond my reach. But what I do share with Julia Child is a reverence for and dependence upon letters. Julia and her husband Paul were devoted letter writers, to each other and to their family and friends. Paul wrote long letters to his twin brother every week, and Julia wrote short but regular letters to the father she did not particularly get along with – except via mail.

Together, they created a wonderful tradition of the annual Valentine Day’s letter, sent to all their friends and family in lieu of a holiday card. These self-produced cards are quite simply, fabulous. I especially loved the one of the two of them in the bath, bubbles artfully arranged to protect privacy. The little heart-shaped bubble above their heads, stating Wish You Were Here, is especially lovely and funny – did they really wish all their friends could join them in the tub? Probably not – but they allowed all friends in, via their card.

The writing of My Life in France was largely possible because of the vast numbers of letters Julia and Paul wrote over the years, some saved by them and others by family. These letters allowed Julia to reconstruct her years in Europe and the story behind the writing of her book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Much as lawyers use old letters to spark remembrances in a witness on the stand, Julia’s grandson Alex Prud-homme was able to use old letters to jiggle Julia’s memory about specific moments from the years she and her husband spent in Europe and then back home in the United States – and from these reawakened memories, the marvelous memoir was put together.

As Julia herself says in the book, about reading the old letters that she and Paul wrote, “the events those letters describe come rushing back to me with great immediacy: Paul noticing the brilliant sparkle of autumn light on the dark Seine, his daily battles with Washington bureaucrats, the smell of Montmartre at dusk, or the night we spied wild-haired Colette eating at that wonderful Old World restaurant Le Grand Vefour..” She then adds, “It is remarkable that our family had the foresight to save those letters – it’s almost as if they knew Alex and I were going to sit down and write this book together one day….”

How wonderful that they did sit down and write this book, for through the book (and the letters) we lucky readers are brought along for the ride! We become as excited as Paul, for example, in reading what he wrote to his twin brother about the wonderful experiences offered by being in Paris: “Lipstick on my belly button and music in the air! Thaaat’s Paris! What a lovely city! ….How fascinating the crowds before one’s café table, how quaint and charming and hidden the little courtyards with their wells and statues. Those garlic-filled belches! Those silk-stockinged legs! Those mascara’d eyelashes! Those electric switches and toilet chains that never work! Hela! Dites-Donc! Bouillabasse!!”

And another of Paul’s letters allows us to be in the room with Julia, watching her cook: “ Julie, with a blue denim apron on, a dish towel stuck under her belt, a spoon in each hand, stirring two pots at the same time. Warning bells are sounding off like signals from the podium, and a garlic-flavored steam fills the air with an odoriferous leitmotif. The oven door opens and shuts so fast you barely notice the deft thrust of a spoon as she dips into a casserole and up to her mouth for a taste-check like a perfectly timed double-beat on the drums. She stands there surrounded by a battery of instruments with an air of authority and confidence…”

Letters create a circle. A circle in which writer and reader join – to share experiences. To be together. For advice or jokes or just to hang out. But a circle that has been especially constructed. Much like cooking a great meal creates a circle, enclosing all members of the table in its grasp. Allowing us to feel safe and loved and special. Just like letters received – and sent – make us feel.

Letters and recipes, (and books, for that matter) all require that both care and time be taken. Letters asking for favors, letters offering condolences, letters expressing thanks or interest or just the desire to reconnect – all of these letters are written with care, to show that we care. We care enough to find the notepaper, the envelope, a pen. A stamp, and the address. We care enough to sit awhile with our thoughts, compose them, put them down on paper. This care, so necessary to good letter writing, applies to cooking as well. One of Julia’s overriding precepts in preparing recipes – her advice to all cooks – is that care be taken. The care to read the instructions, assemble the right ingredients, and then follow each step to the letter: as Julia says, “a careful approach will result in a magnificent burst of flavor, a thoroughly satisfying meal, perhaps even a life-changing experience…”

Care, time, and letters have gone into the making of My Life in France, and the result is rich, surprising, and satisfying as only the best meals, letters, and books can be.