If World War II had never occurred, no one would have heard of Julia Child. I would have undoubtedly married some nice businessman and probably become an alcoholic. Instead, I met Paul Child.
It happened, of all places, in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) on the verandah of a tea planter’s residence. The year was 1944, and the plantation served as headquarters for the OSS, America’s first spy agency. I was, I’m sorry to say, not a spy, just a humdrum office worker. Paul, a gifted artist, was an exhibits officer who made charts and maps for Lord Mountbatten, Supreme Commander for Southeast Asia. While we worked in palm-thatched huts, elephants wandered on the premises. It was all very exotic.
And no one was more exotic to me than Paul, a…
