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people. Tell me, how did you come to do the book?” I explained that I had not been enthusiastic when my agent first mentioned my writing a cookbook because, although I embraced any opportunity to write about food, I didn’t consider myself a cook who could whip up two hundred original recipes. Julia nodded an all-too-understanding nod, possibly recalling my garlic butchery of a few years before. I kept scanning her face for signs of incipient yawning as I related probably too many details about developing a book about California’s historical romance with food. As for the recipes, I’d chanced upon an article in the New York Times about a woman named Louise Fiszer who taught cooking in her own little cooking school/cookware shop in Menlo Park, about twenty minutes from me. I was captivated by the style and spirit of her recipes and the way they seemed to convey the kind of California message I wanted to write about.

I called Louise at her shop and she invited me over. We got along instantly, intrigued by the many parallels in our lives. We both came from Brooklyn, only miles from each other; we were two weeks apart in age; we both had recently bought a newfangled contraption called a computer that neither of us knew how to use.

Once we started to develop the book proposal, we worked beautifully together, dividing tasks, respecting each other’s opinions, resolving differences, of which there were incredibly few, if any, with no hurt feelings or wounded egos. We even learned, because it was essential to our project, how to work on the computer using the brain-straining word processing system called WordStar. Our agent received wildly enthusiastic responses to our proposal from several New York publishers—or more correctly put, he masterminded those responses by creating a bit of a frenzy and cultivating a bidding war mentality. To seal the deal, Simon & Schuster offered us a contract for $50,000. Not bad for 1983 and two unknown authors of their first book.

Strictly speaking, it was my third book proposal, the first being “The Last-Minute Epicure” with Frances Mayes. The second was a cookbook concept I developed with—or in spite of—Judy Rodgers, a young cook at the Union Hotel in the small Northern California town of Benicia. She insisted she had no time to work on the book proposal per se, so she gave me a sheaf of her menus which I used to create the table of contents. After I finished the proposal and began to receive enthusiastic responses from publishers, Judy decided she didn’t want to do the book after all. It was too American, too Californian. She was afraid that a book about contemporary cooking would typecast her, that she’d lose credibility as a French chef before she even had any. I was crushed at the time, although I realized that if the book proceeded as it had to date, it would be a one-sided coauthorship.

“And so,” Julia asked, bringing me out of this annoyingly vivid reverie, “is your collaboration with Louise a good one?”

“Yes. The best,” is all I said, with a smile prompted by recalling my friend Frances’s summing up of the situation: “The fact that it didn’t work out with JR almost makes you believe in God.”

“Well, this is a beautiful book indeed. You and Louise should be very proud.”

A few minutes later, we walked onto Macy’s makeshift stage greeted by the thunderous applause of a crowd that packed the airplane-hangar-sized room. I gave my little speech about Julia’s impact on all of our lives and her venture into the new world of videotaped cooking lessons. When I passed the microphone to Julia, the walls seemed to be caving in from the room-rattling temblors of applause.

Holding up a copy of one of the videotapes, she waved to the cheering masses. The decibel level decrescendoed only when she started to speak. That’s when I realized it wasn’t a videotape she had in her hand: it was my book.

“Come on. Don’t be shy. Show everyone this beautiful new book. This is Jeannette’s new book, The California-American Cookbook,” she called out, reading the cover to the audience. “It’s full of absolutely marvelous