I fear I may have killed Julia Child, telepathically.

Before you call me mad know that I have twice insisted in the last week that Julia Child was dead, hazily recalling her donation of a house to Smith College some years ago, and assuming that the consequence of her demise. And just last night a friend, who also shared this heretofore wrong belief, that Julia Child was no longer among us, revealed that she'd learned Julia to be very much alive.

In my heart -- I shudder to admit it, fair readers -- I repeated again and again, "Julia Child is dead!," still unconvinced of her quickness.

And then this:

Julia Child, the grande dame of U.S. television cooking shows and books, has died at age 91, her publisher said on Friday.

Alfred A. Knopf said in a statement she died in her sleep on Thursday at her Santa Barbara, California, home.

Now it was just the time when Julia Child might've been sleeping that I uttered sub-lingually those words I now so regret, "Julia Child is dead!"

It is with great sorrow, with gravest weight and pangs upon my conscience that I confess the deed.

Rest in peace, fair chef!

I shall henceforth quit thinking dead those I know not assuredly to be so.

...

I shall quit too this style of expression once I have quit reading Thomas De Quincey.