Who am I kidding? I can't take a blog holiday! How ridiculous! (Except for that week later this month, when I'm being summoned home to celebrate my parents' 50th anniversary in a rented house in Door County with 10 other people and no Internet connection.)
Anyway, we interrupt this blog holiday to say Meryl Streep, here's an Oscar, or whatever it is that's bigger than an Oscar—I don't know, here's a MERYL, maybe—for the roundness and great generous spirit that bubbles and bursts and pours out of this portrayal, which is some combination of artistry and alchemy that is very close to perfection, and the purest definition of joy. Baby, she breathes Julia Child, and it's a wonder to behold in a film that's deep with heart and the simple, miraculous pleasure of taking the time and the effort to enjoy oneself—and learn about oneself—by whatever means necessary.
Stanley Tucci, I salute you, as well, because without you I would never be able to confess my deepest, darkest secret, which is that one day I should very much like for a man I love to raise a glass to me across a crowded table—be it a dining room in Paris or the basement of a Shake Shack—and, with a gentle smile on his face, call me his darling girl.