You would probably notice how, inevitably, in the comments section of those particular brands of LadyBlog, there would be the chorus of, “that’s great but — or should I say ‘butter?’” followed by 83 women chiming in about how Julia Was Great for Feminism, But I Would So Get Fat if I Tried to Cook Like That (Butter, Don’t Do It), or alternately, She Was Revolutionary For Her Time, But Alice Waters Says I Should Eat Local, And Besides, Julia’s Recipes Are Kind of Fussy (Also, Did I Mention the Butter?).

To which I hold up tonight’s meal as proof that those women are doing themselves a great disservice by not cracking open the copy of MtAoFC that Amazon shipped them three weeks ago (when we were belly-deep in the J&J hype) and make cream of mushroom soup.

Before today, on the off-chance that my mind flittered to the notion of mushroom soup, it went straight to the red-and-white can of condensed white glop that was added to some casserole recipe before the potato chips, but after the green chile. It was a base, never to be eaten by itself.

But the Capt’n likes cream of mushroom soup, and there it was, the fourth recipe in the book, and it was rainy today and I have this new green Le Creuset pot just aching to be put to use and what the hell? Soup.

An hour later, we had soup. It was amazing. It tasted just like cream of mushroom soup, but in its platonic ideal. There was no need for it to be baked with tuna and potato chips with a crunchy noodle crust. This soup had no time for such plebeian froofery. This soup is like the self-assured geek: a loner who knows that lesser folk have to have the crunch and the tuna, but this soup, this geek can stand alone and be taken straight up and be praised for it.

(I could be reaching.)

It was good, fine soup. I was impressed.

And yes, it had butter in it. It also had heavy cream, chicken stock and some onion. It also had flavor. And that’s when I started feeling bad for the LadyBlog chorus. It’s a mixture of pity and frustration, more like. Pity, because by turning up their noses at a perceived passing trend (I mean, dear lord, the movie has made made $85 worldwide! That’s so … plebeian!) and saying redonkulous things like “butter gives me cellulite” these women are cutting themselves out of the opportunity to have the satisfaction of making (and eating) a simple, yet profoundly tasty dish. Frustrating, because butter doesn’t cause cellulite.

And, really, Julia Child was a freakin’ member of the OSS. She was a spy. Who doesn’t want to get down with some of her recipes?

And butter is good. There, I said it.

(But this soup is so much better.)

It has been a long weekend dedicated to eating. Thursday saw the traditional dinner at my parents’ house, with just the family in attendance. We sat around the heirloom dining room table and worked our way through quite the holiday spread and drank one hell of a wine and finished up with pie and conversation. As an adult, Thanksgiving has become, hands down, my most favorite holiday.

Friday found us back at my parents’ house for my second most favorite holiday — Left Over Day! This saw us crowded around the kitchen table digging into the plentiful leftovers before stumbling over to a spot in front of the fire for the second turkey coma in as many days.

And then came today. It’s cold and blustery, but bright. All morning, I’d had my nosed buried in “The Fellowship of the Ring” and damn if those hobbits don’t eat every three pages. By chapter eight, I was ravenous. About all we had in the house was an onion, and I wasn’t quite prepared to go out in the cold and bluster, so I did what any normal person would do. I picked up Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. 1 and dug out the recipe for onion soup.

Look, Julia Child is not going to steer you wrong when it comes to the delicious. She might steer you to a heart attack, but it will be tasty.

The Capt’n sat down at the table and almost wept over the soup. As a child, his father dragged him all around central Europe, and he had fallen in love with onion soup and strudel. Strudel, I haven’t attempted, but the Capt’n claims that if I did, he’d have no reason to go back to Austria, because I nailed the taste memory of the onion soup. “Seriously, this is the best thing you’ve ever made,” he said, and I have to think that the way his eyes glistened when he said it signaled his genuine feelings.

I have to remember this one for later in the winter.