Twenty or so years ago, I met Julia Child. I was young, sported a questionable mushroom haircut and worked, at the time, as a features writer for a professionally staffed house organ called the Harvard University Gazette.
I was also, I must confess, not especially tall (does 5'4" count as short?), a fact only relevant because Child herself was 6-foot-2. I had been assigned to cover a grip-and-grin ceremony where Child, by then a national treasure, formally donated her cookbook collection to a Radcliffe library devoted to women's history. I arrived for the event with a clean reporter's notebook and a set of bangs I could barely see through.
Once there, I was …
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