There are certain places in the world that feel less like destinations and more like pilgrimages.

For me, that place was La Pitchoune — affectionately called “La Peetch” — Julia Child’s summer home tucked quietly into the hills of Provence in the South of France.

If you’ve spent even half a second around my social media, you already know Julia Child has long been my muse. Not only in cooking, but in the way I’ve chosen to live my life. Her curiosity. Her courage to begin again. Her refusal to let age define possibility. Her ability to romanticize life through food, friendship, markets, wine, flowers, and beautifully imperfect meals shared around a table.

Julia found her calling later in life after an entirely different career. She met Paul later in life. She reinvented herself without apology. During some of the hardest seasons of my own life — especially while navigating divorce — I found myself constantly wondering: What would Julia do?

And somehow, the answer was always the same.

Live anyway.

Cook anyway.

Love anyway.

Set the table anyway.

While I know Julie & Julia was never intended to be a biography, Meryl Streep’s portrayal became the version of Julia I carried with me all these years. Romantic. Fearless. Whimsical. A woman fully alive.

So when my husband Scot and three dear couple friends began planning a trip to France nearly a year ago, there was never really a question of where we would stay.

Our group text was eventually renamed Bonjour, naturally. It quickly became filled with wine memes, market itineraries, links to little villages, discussions about linen dresses and walking shoes, and countdowns until Provence.

Our plan was simple in theory and dreamy in execution: each morning we would visit a different village market, spend hours wandering and shopping, settle into long leisurely lunches somewhere beautiful, then return to La Peetch to cook dinner together using whatever inspired us that day.

Honestly?

Six days was nowhere near enough.

Arriving at La Peetch

The moment we pulled onto the property, tears immediately welled in my eyes.

The ivy climbing the stone walls. The soft faded shutters. Flowers spilling wildly across the property as if they had simply decided to live there forever. The late afternoon sunlight wrapped everything in gold.

It didn’t feel like arriving at a rental house.

It felt like stepping into a memory.

And yes — La Pitchoune is available to rent, which still feels surreal to even type.

We were greeted by the wonderful Traci, who immediately made us feel like dear friends returning home rather than guests arriving for the first time. She casually mentioned there was “a little spread” waiting for us so we wouldn’t need to worry about dinner that evening.

A little spread.

There were oysters on ice, smoked salmon, cheeses, salami, fresh bread, crudités, a beautiful vegetable tart, chilled wine, sparkling water, and a fully stocked bar waiting for us after a long day of travel.

Hospitality in France feels different somehow. Slower. More intentional. Less performative and more nurturing.

Then came the moment. The kitchen. Julia’s pegboard kitchen.

I truly was not prepared for how emotional I would become standing in that space.

The counters overflowed with local produce — glossy eggplants, vibrant tomatoes still fragrant from the vine, peppers, artichokes, shallots, garlic, cucumbers, citrus, herbs, little bowls of flaky salt. Olive oils. Vinegars. Dijon mustard. Grainy mustard. Everything a cook could dream of.

And unlike so many vacation rentals where the kitchen feels like an afterthought, this one felt sacred to cooking itself.

Copper pots glowed against the walls. Staub Dutch ovens lined the shelves. Made In pans and knives filled the drawers. A Vitamix stood at the ready. Every drawer opened to reveal another thoughtful tool.

It was impossible not to feel inspired there. Within moments my brain was already writing menus.

That first evening we sat beneath the pergola lights sipping sparkling wine while music drifted through the warm Provençal air. We talked about the week ahead — markets we wanted to visit, dishes we hoped to cook, wines we wanted to drink.

Scot and I stayed in the little cottage across the driveway from the main house, and that first night I fell asleep with the windows cracked open listening to the sounds of cicadas and distant laughter.

I remember thinking very clearly: I never want to forget this feeling.

Sunday — Slow Beginnings at La Peetch

Our first full day began slowly, exactly as it should.

No alarms. No agenda. Just soft morning light streaming through the windows and the sound of coffee being made in Julia Child’s kitchen.

We decided to spend the day entirely at the house simply soaking in the property itself before beginning our market adventures.

After a leisurely grocery run — which mostly consisted of wine, snacks, cheese, and meat for dinner — we returned home and put together one of those breakfasts that somehow only happens on vacation.

A fluffy frittata filled with vegetables and herbs. Brioche French toast topped with strawberries. Endless mimosas.

We lingered around the table before eventually moving to the pool where we spent the afternoon reading, swimming, laughing, and letting the French sunshine melt away whatever stress we had carried from home.

That evening became our first real collaborative dinner together.

The men grilled while the women gathered around the kitchen preparing the rest of the meal.

For apéro we made mussels with shallots, garlic, herbs, and white wine alongside roasted baby purple artichokes served with a mustard-heavy aioli filled with Dijon and grainy mustard.

We carried everything out onto the porch with cold wine and little plates balanced in our hands while the sky slowly turned lavender.

Dinner was grilled marinated chicken, pork tenderloin, zucchini, and a sprawling salad filled with herbs and bright vinaigrette.

Simple food.

Beautiful ingredients.

Nothing rushed.

And that became the rhythm of our week.

Monday — Châteauneuf-Grasse & Auberge de Provence

Monday morning brought our first official market day in Châteauneuf-Grasse.

This was exactly the kind of market I had dreamed about for years.

Tables overflowing with olives in every shade imaginable. Rotisserie chickens slowly turning. Local cheeses wrapped carefully in paper. Straw baskets. Linen dresses fluttering in the breeze. Herbs so fragrant you could smell them before even reaching the stall.

We wandered slowly, stopping constantly to taste things.

A sliver of cheese here. A spoonful of tapenade there. Tiny strawberries so sweet they barely tasted real.

Lunch was at Auberge de Provence in Plascassier, and it ended up being one of those meals that quietly stays with you long after the plates are cleared.

Long stemmed wine glasses catching sunlight. Crisp rosé. Beautifully prepared local vegetables. Fresh fish. The kind of meal where conversation slows because everyone is too busy savoring each bite.

By the time we returned to La Peetch that evening, we realized we had accumulated enough leftovers and market treasures to create an effortless dinner spread.

So we did exactly that.

Cheeses. Bread. Olives. Charcuterie. Wine.

After dinner we brought out the game, Five Crowns, which quickly became the official game of the trip. Yes, those are blue chicken feet on Izzie’s earrings. They are a fashion statement.

At some point seventies music came on.

And somehow our elegant French evening turned into a full dance party.

Honestly, Julia probably would have approved.

Tuesday — Mouans-Sartoux, Mougins & Valbonne

Tuesday’s market in Mouans-Sartoux was entirely different.

Far more clothing and textiles than food, which meant the men spent a considerable amount of time patiently waiting while the women wandered through stalls holding up dresses, scarves, and baskets.

We found beautiful olives that Tracy later roasted for apéro, and eventually made our way to Mougins for lunch at Le Petit Fouet.

Mougins itself feels almost impossibly charming. A hilltop village with winding stone streets, climbing flowers, tucked-away galleries, and views stretching endlessly into the countryside.

Lunch at Le Petit Fouet felt quintessentially French. Unhurried. Elegant without trying too hard. The kind of place where you accidentally spend three hours at the table.

On our way home we stopped in Valbonne and wandered through the square before finding ourselves at 365 Fromages where we purchased French butter to take home.

Not before we stopped for a spritz on the square. We found a lot of restaurants offered hats to their patrons to help with the sun, so of course we needed to match our drinks.

Then we discovered Capra.

A small silk and cashmere shop owned by one of the kindest women we encountered during our entire trip. Her attention to detail, warmth, and genuine care made the experience feel so personal that we returned again on our final morning in France just to buy more scarves before heading to the airport.

Back at the house, Izzie, Marcella, and Tracie assembled apéro while I cooked Chicken Dijon with potatoes and a white asparagus salad filled with chopped egg, toasted walnuts, herbs, and vinaigrette.

Another round of Five Crowns followed.

Slightly earlier bedtime.

Though not by much.

Wednesday — Grasse & An Evening with Friends

Wednesday belonged to Grasse.

The perfume capital of the world.

The entire town smelled faintly of jasmine, roses, citrus blossoms, and soap drifting through the warm air.

We wandered through perfume and food shops and tiny boutiques before eventually settling into Les Délicatesses where we shared large grazing boards and sparkling rosé for lunch.

At some point we collectively admitted defeat regarding the hills and boarded the tiny tourist train that loops through the city.

And honestly? It ended up being one of the best decisions we made all week because the views were absolutely breathtaking.

Later that evening we were invited to Makenna’s home for apéro.

For me personally, this felt incredibly special. Years ago I worked for Recipe Kick as one of the online cooking instructors, so finally meeting Makenna in person after only knowing her through screens felt surreal.

Her home was every bit as beautiful as it appeared on Cooking in France — warm, layered, inviting, and effortlessly elegant.

By the time we returned to La Peetch we wanted something simple.

Roasted peppers. Olives. Cheese. Bread.

Then a beautiful Italian-inspired dinner with Caprese salad, creamy risotto, and eggplant and zucchini rollatini.

At that point our group had developed a rhythm in the kitchen that felt almost choreographed. Someone pouring wine. Someone chopping herbs. Someone setting the table. Someone sneaking bites of cheese while pretending to help.

Those are the moments I miss most now.

Thursday — Tourrettes-sur-Loup & Julia’s Beef Bourguignon

Thursday felt emotional from the moment we woke up because we all knew it was our final full day.

We spent the afternoon in Tourrettes-sur-Loup, one of the most charming villages of the entire trip.

Stone streets winding through the village. Jasmine climbing walls. Tiny artisan shops tucked into centuries-old buildings.

Lunch at Clovis was extraordinary.

A seasonal three-course menu that changed monthly based entirely on what was freshest and available nearby. Every course felt thoughtful without being fussy.

It ended up being one of our favorite meals of the entire week.

Back at La Peetch, I knew exactly what I wanted to make for our final dinner.

Julia’s Beef Bourguignon.

Not just any version, but the same dish I prepared when I won The Chew’s Julia Child 100th Birthday cooking competition back in 2012.

Standing in Julia Child’s kitchen making that dish for people I love was almost too emotional to fully process.

There was something profoundly moving about browning beef, stirring wine into the pot, smelling garlic and butter fill the kitchen, all while standing in the exact place where Julia herself once cooked for friends and family.

It felt sacred in a way I cannot fully explain.

While the bourguignon slowly braised, I showed Marcella how to make gazpacho inspired by the chilled soup waiting for us upon arrival earlier in the week.

Marcella roasted peppers while we blended tomatoes, cucumber, garlic, olive oil, and cumin vinegar together before letting it rest in the refrigerator while the flavors deepened.

The men headed outside to play pétanque and smoke cigars while we watched from the upper lawn sipping gin and tonics in the warm afternoon air with that perfect light.

Inside, the kitchen smelled like wine, herbs, garlic, butter, and comfort.

The ladies eventually cleaned out the refrigerator assembling little snack plates of cheese, salami, olives, and bread while I finished mashed potatoes and buttered noodles so everyone could choose their preferred accompaniment to the bourguignon.

Dessert was pastries delivered fresh that morning.

And somehow we all lingered at the table just a little longer that night.

None of us wanted it to end.

Friday — Leaving La Peetch

Friday morning arrived far too quickly.

Suitcases lined outside by the van. Coffee cups sat half-finished. Everyone moved slower than usual.

Goodbyes are strange after a trip like this because it begins to feel less like leaving a vacation and more like leaving a version of yourself behind.

But something shifted in me during those six days at La Pitchoune.

A renewed inspiration.

A reminder that seasonal cooking is not simply a style of food — it is a way of living. A slower, more intentional way of paying attention to beauty, friendship, and connection.

Life is short. Take the trip. Gather your people. Go to the markets. Drink the wine. Buy the beautiful scarf. Cook the meal.

Stay up too late playing cards, being silly and dancing with people you love.

And if you ever get the chance to stay at La Peetch take it.

Because somewhere between the copper pots, the jasmine and rose-scented air, the clinking wine glasses, and the lingering dinners beneath the pergola lights, I think Julia’s spirit still lives there.

With grace, grit & gratitude,

xx, JeriLynne

P.S. — One of the greatest gifts this trip gave me was renewed inspiration in the kitchen. Throughout the summer, I’ll be sharing a cooking series inspired by my time at La Peetch — the markets of Provence, the meals we created together, and the slower, more intentional lifestyle of the South of France. Expect seasonal recipes, market-inspired dishes, long lunches reimagined at home, and little glimpses of the romance and beauty that made this trip so unforgettable. 🇫🇷✨

P.P.S. — To our dear Bonjour family… thank you for letting me photograph every single dish that hit the table, film every market stroll and kitchen moment, and lovingly tolerate my constant tears of joy throughout the week. Thank you for embracing the magic of this experience with me so wholeheartedly. These memories are now stitched into my heart forever. Love y’all endlessly. 🇫🇷✨