The movie Julie and Julia is as delightful as everyone says. Even the men in the audience seemed to like it. The viewing prompted me to go back to the books from whence the movie came. Julia Child’s memoir, My Life in France (delivered posthumously by her grandnephew, Alex Prud’Homme) both charms you and makes you want to rush out and eat fresh baguettes and tenderly roasted chickens. It may even tempt you toward snails. I had a different reaction to Julie Powell’s Julie and Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously, which I listened to the author read on audiobook (though I must admit I quit after a couple of chapters). I didn’t like Julie Powell. She was a whiner. Her book sounded like a blog that had been made into a book, which it was. So kudos to Nora Ephron, the movie’s writer and director, for molding the Julie story into an appealing half of a movie. But if you’re going to read one of those halves, make it My Life in France.