A poem about Julia Child’s butt by her husband

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This poem by Paul Child was published on Julia’s 49th birthday. See if you can find the lines that might have surprised you, if you were a reader of the Seventeen Magazine in which it was originally published:

Birthday 1961

O Julia, Julia, cook and nifty wench,
Whose unsurpassed quenelles and hot souffles,
Whose English, Norse and German, and whose French,
Are all beyond my piteous powers to praise —
Whose sweetly rounded bottom and whose legs,
Whose gracious face, whose nature temperate,
Are only equalled by her scrambled eggs:

Accept from me, your ever-loving mate,
This acclamation shaped in fourteen lines
Whose inner truth belies its outer sight;
For never were there foods, nor were there wines
Whose flavor equals yours for sheer delight.
O luscious dish! O gustatory pleasure! And yet
It is your bottom satisfies my taste buds beyond measure.

– http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=3850087

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