She was always on television, usually on Sunday mornings. She was the person your mother watched after she woke up and said "Enough cartoons." Then she would change it to PBS. And there was this woman with curly brown hair on the screen. She usually wore a blue shirt with a no nonsense black skirt. On the shirt's lapel it had writing but it was hard to read.

The woman talked while she cooked; she talked to you as if you were friends, doing this together. She would rub butter on a chicken, show off a fish to be cooked. Brass pots hung on the walls of her kitchen. She was unpretentious. She felt like someone you knew.

When she died at age 92, it felt wrong. She was ageless. You always thought she was going to sit down at her table, pour herself a glass of wine, then say to the camera "Bon appeit!"

She would've been a hundred today. Bon appeit, Julia Child.