The Monday Night Cooking School Part 8

"And make sure you come to cla.s.s on Monday."

WHEN C CHLOE ARRIVED on Monday night, she saw the rest of the students waiting outside. A few moments later, Lillian ran up the walk toward them, several brown paper bags in her hands, her hair loose and flying behind her. on Monday night, she saw the rest of the students waiting outside. A few moments later, Lillian ran up the walk toward them, several brown paper bags in her hands, her hair loose and flying behind her.

"Sorry I'm late," she called out. "I had to get a few things together."

She wound her way through the a.s.sembled group, greeting each person as she went past, and unlocked the kitchen, flicking on the lights with her thumb as she entered. The students took their seats, Chloe by chance ending up next to Antonia.

"Now"-Lillian placed the bags on the wooden counter and turned to the cla.s.s-"I have something special planned for tonight. We've done several more complicated dinners recently. But one of the essential lessons in cooking is how extraordinary the simplest foods can be when they are prepared with care and the freshest ingredients. So tonight, while it is cold and bl.u.s.tery outside, we are going to experience some utterly uncomplicated bliss."

There was a knock on the kitchen door. The students looked at it in surprise.

"Perfect timing." Lillian went to open the door. Outside was a woman with bronzed, wrinkled skin and white, white hair. What she had gained in age, she appeared to have lost in height, reaching at most to Lillian's shoulder.

"Cla.s.s," said Lillian, smiling, "this is my friend Abuelita. She is here to help us tonight."

Abuelita entered the room and looked over the rows of students. "Thank you for having me," she said, her voice warm and gravelly with age. "You must be a special cla.s.s-Lillian has never asked me to help her teach before. Or perhaps she is just getting old and lazy." And then she winked.

Antonia leaned over toward Chloe. "She reminds me of my nonna nonna. Maybe she will tell us secrets about Lillian." Chloe stared at Antonia-she had always viewed the young woman, with her effortless olive beauty and her accent that seemed to invite men to bed, as something to be observed in pristinely silent awe-but Antonia still gazed at her, mischief flickering in her eyes, and Chloe found herself grinning.

"Like why she never got married..." she suggested.

"Or where she lives," Isabelle whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially.

"Enough chatter out there," Lillian said, amused. "Chloe, you seem to have plenty of energy tonight; why don't you come up and help us?"

Chloe started to shake her head, but Antonia gave her a supportive push on the back of her shoulder.

"Go on. You should do this."

Chloe walked up to the counter and stood a bit apart from Lillian and Abuelita.

"Abuelita was my first cooking teacher, and she showed me how to make tortillas," Lillian explained. "Now, if we were really authentic"-Lillian made a slight bow in Abuelita's direction-"we would have made the masa masa ourselves. We would have soaked and cooked dried corn in water and powdered lime to make ourselves. We would have soaked and cooked dried corn in water and powdered lime to make nixtamal, nixtamal, which we would then have ground into the which we would then have ground into the masa harina masa harina-luckily for us, Abuelita has a wonderful store where you can buy the flour already made."

"When I was a girl," Abuelita commented, "it was my job to grind the corn. We had a big stone, with a dip in the middle, called a metate metate, and I would kneel in front of it and use a mano mano-like a rolling pin made of stone. It takes a long time to make enough for one tortilla, you know, and you need strong arms. And knees. It is much easier this way," she said, picking up the bag of masa harina masa harina and pouring a yellow stream of corn flour into the bowl. and pouring a yellow stream of corn flour into the bowl.

"Now add some water," she said, handing Chloe the bowl.

"How much?" Chloe asked.

Abuelita's eyes moved over Chloe, her sweats.h.i.+rt baggy on her slim shoulders, her eyes dark with liner. She shrugged, a movement as light and casual as wind over gra.s.s.

"Do what makes sense."

Chloe threw a despairing look at Antonia and Isabelle, who gestured encouragement, and then she took the bowl to the sink and turned on the tap, feeling the soft grains between her fingers turn cold and slick under the stream of water. She shut off the faucet, mixing the liquid into the flour with her hands. Still too dry. She added a bit more water, mixed again, added a little more, finally feeling the two elements become one.

"I get it," she said, looking up at Abuelita.

"Good," said Abuelita. "Now, take some dough and make a ball." Her hands lifted a bit of the mixture and rolled it between her palms, her movements fluid and a.s.sured, as the students watched her. "Then you pat it," she said, the ball pa.s.sing between her palms, flattening within the motion of her hands. She paused for a moment, curling the tips of her fingers, then rotated the dough in a circular motion, pulling the edges out, creating an even, round shape, then returned to patting, rhythmically, quickly.

"It's like watching a waterfall," Carl commented appreciatively from the back row.

"They say," noted Lillian, "that it takes thirty-two pats to make a tortilla."

Abuelita chuckled, never slowing in her movements. "Such precision from a woman who doesn't believe in recipes."

"Not that she she does, either," retorted Lillian. does, either," retorted Lillian.

"When it's important." Abuelita put down the finished tortilla, then took some more dough from the bowl and handed it to Chloe. "Now you try."

Chloe hesitantly rolled it between her palms. "It's like Play-Doh," she commented, "only softer." She began flipping the ball from hand to hand, pus.h.i.+ng the shape flat. After a time, she looked down at the dough in dismay, the edges splayed out and separated like ragged flower petals, the thickness irregular, lumpy. She rolled it up and started patting again, determinedly.

"This is not baseball," said Abuelita after a time, but kindly. "Be calm." She took Chloe's hands in her own, stilling them. "Think of a dance with someone you love. You want to stay close to each other. You don't need to think about anything else."

Chloe began again, slowly. She felt the ball of dough s.h.i.+fting back and forth, back and forth. Gradually, she felt the shape opening up, spreading out like another hand, warm from her own, slipping across the slim s.p.a.ce between her palms. She quickened her pace. The rhythm was soothing, the sound of her hands like raindrops falling down a gutter.

"I think that is good," said Abuelita after a minute or so.

Chloe looked down to see the finished tortilla in her hand. "That was amazing," she said to Abuelita. "Can everyone try?"

Abuelita handed her the bowl and Chloe walked along the rows of students. Each of them made a small ball and began patting, laughing at their mistakes, then gaining a rhythm, the sound of their hands turning into a muted, collective ovation.

"Now, there are are tortilla presses," Lillian said. From under the counter she took out a metal object, two round circles connected by a hinge. She opened and closed it to show where the dough would go, how it would flatten under the pressure of the upper lid. "But I think every day deserves applause." tortilla presses," Lillian said. From under the counter she took out a metal object, two round circles connected by a hinge. She opened and closed it to show where the dough would go, how it would flatten under the pressure of the upper lid. "But I think every day deserves applause."

"And maybe a dance? Did you know this woman can dance?" Abuelita asked the cla.s.s, eyes sparkling.

"Which leads us to salsa," Lillian said briskly, lifting a brown paper bag onto the counter. "Antonia," she said, cutting off the question Chloe could see forming on Antonia's lips, "could you come up and help Abuelita cook the tortillas while Chloe and I chop?

"Here you go," she said to Chloe, handing her a sharp knife.

"You want me to use this?" Chloe said in an undertone to Lillian. "You know me and knives." Lillian simply nodded.

Over by the hot griddle, Abuelita was explaining the cooking process to Antonia. "About half a minute on each side. They should puff up into little balloons-if they don't, you can press on them lightly with two fingers before you turn them."

Lillian pulled an item from her bag and put it in Chloe's hand. "Here," she said, "start with this."

The tomato was unlike anything Chloe had seen before, bulbous and swollen, more horizontal than vertical, with ridges running from top to bottom along its sides, straining in places, ready to burst. There was red, certainly, but of a painter's palette of variations, deep garnet to almost orange, with streaks of green and yellow. Its comforting weight filled her hand, the ridges sliding between her fingers. She pressed softly, then stopped, feeling the skin begin to depress beneath her touch.

"This is called an heirloom tomato," Lillian explained to the cla.s.s. "Usually that's something you only get in August and September, but we were lucky today."

The air was beginning to fill with the sweet spiciness of roasting corn, the soft whispers of the tortillas flipping, then landing on the grill, the murmured conversation between Abuelita and Antonia, something about grandmothers, it sounded like. Chloe placed the tomato on the chopping block. She was surprised to find how much affection she had for its odd lumpiness. She tested the point of the knife, and the surface gave way quickly and cleanly, exposing the dense interior, juices dripping out onto the wooden board, along with a few seeds. Grasping the knife firmly, she drew it in a smooth, consistent stroke across the arc of the tomato, a slice falling neatly to one side.

"Good," Lillian remarked, and Chloe continued, slice after slice, amazed at her ability to create six divisions across the single fruit in front of her, then take the slices and turn them into small, neat squares.

"Time for a break." Abuelita brought Chloe a tortilla from the griddle. "Hold it in the flat of your hand," she directed, "now rub the end of the stick of b.u.t.ter across it and sprinkle on some salt." Chloe lifted the tortilla to her mouth, inhaling the round, warm smell of corn and melting b.u.t.ter, soft as a mother's hand moving across the back of her almost sleeping child.

"Why would you ever want to eat anything else?" Chloe asked as she finished.

"Maybe salsa," Lillian remarked, handing Chloe the cilantro, dripping with water.

WHEN IT WAS mixed together, the salsa was a celebration of red and white and green, cool and fresh and alive. On a tortilla, with a bit of crumbled white mixed together, the salsa was a celebration of red and white and green, cool and fresh and alive. On a tortilla, with a bit of crumbled white queso fresco, queso fresco, it was both satisfying and invigorating, full of textures and adventures, like childhood held in your hand. it was both satisfying and invigorating, full of textures and adventures, like childhood held in your hand.

Chloe held her tortilla over a small plate, watching the drips from the tomato juice and b.u.t.ter land on the white china. The cla.s.s was quiet, absorbed in the food in their hands. Abuelita and Lillian stood at the counter, leaning into each other, talking quietly, while Antonia removed the last of the tortillas from the griddle and placed them on the stack underneath a white kitchen towel to stay warm.

It was like a picture, Chloe thought. A recipe without words. She stood still, sensing the kitchen around her, feeling the energy the room held, would hold until the next afternoon when the cooks and bussers and patrons arrived and it would again become something more than the acc.u.mulation of its bustle and ingredients, and the food they cooked would become laughter and romance, warm and bright and golden. She smiled.

Lillian walked over and pulled one last tomato from the bag and handed it to Chloe. "I think you earned this," she said.

CLa.s.s WAS OVER. Abuelita had gone home, claiming with a laugh that she was too old for late hours. The others had left one or a few at a time, Claire begging some tortillas to take home to her children, Ian dragging Tom outside saying he wanted to ask him a question, Helen and Carl offering Isabelle a ride.

It was quiet in the kitchen, the only sounds the rattling of the bowls as Chloe put them away, the swish of the towel as Lillian cleaned the last of the counters. The door clicked shut behind Antonia as she carried the last of the wooden folding chairs to the storage shed just outside.

"Can I ask you something?" Chloe met Antonia at the door as she reentered.

"Certo." Of course. Of course.

"You are so beautiful," Chloe stumbled. "I'm not..."

"Ahhh..." Antonia smiled and turned to Lillian. "Can we borrow your restroom for a moment?" Lillian nodded, and Antonia grabbed a clean kitchen towel and took Chloe by the hand, leading her through the restaurant dining room and into the tiny green women's restroom. Standing in front of the mirror, Antonia took the clip that had been holding the waves of her black hair, and then deftly pulled Chloe's brown curls away from her face.

"Good," said Antonia, as she secured the clip in Chloe's hair. "Now, water."

"What?"

"Your face, please." She turned on the hot water.

Chloe filled her cupped hands with warm water and brought it up to her face. She could feel the heat meeting her skin, the smell, slightly metallic, green as the room around her. It was quiet in the s.p.a.ce created between her hands and face, clean, safe.

"Now soap."

Chloe rubbed the soap bar between her hands, the scent of rosemary tickling her nose, then she scrubbed, rinsed, and wiped her face on the towel Antonia handed her, appalled when she saw the thick black streaks across the white.

"Ancora." Again. Antonia smiled. Again. Antonia smiled.

"She's going to kill me for that towel."

"Use more soap this time. And no, she won't."

Finally, Antonia relented and Chloe looked up into the mirror. Her face gazed back at her, open, her eyes huge and blue, her hair barely restrained.

"Essential ingredients," Antonia observed, "only the best."

"But you you are beautiful," Chloe insisted. are beautiful," Chloe insisted.

Antonia laughed softly. "I used to say that to my mother all the time. She would be standing in the kitchen or digging in the garden, and I would think she was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. I was not a pretty teenager. And do you know what she would say to me?"

Chloe shook her head.

"She would say, 'Life is beautiful. Some people just remind you of that more than others.' " is beautiful. Some people just remind you of that more than others.' "

WHEN A ANTONIA AND C CHLOE got back to the kitchen, they saw Lillian had pulled a tray of chocolate eclairs out of the walk-in refrigerator. got back to the kitchen, they saw Lillian had pulled a tray of chocolate eclairs out of the walk-in refrigerator.

"Stacy's specialty. There are a few left over from Sunday. Care to join me?"

"Really?" Antonia and Chloe eagerly settled in around the counter. Chloe picked up one of the eclairs and set it on a white plate that Antonia handed to her. She ran a finger along the top and felt the thick, heavy chocolate as it melted from her finger in her mouth.

"Uhmmmm. Tell Stacy these are wonderful."

"I like the filling best," Antonia remarked, delicately breaking the eclair in half and dipping the tip of one finger into the cream in the center. "My mother always scolded me for eating the inside of my pastries first."

Antonia's cell phone buzzed, and Antonia looked at the screen.

"How is it you say? Speak of the angel?" She saw their puzzled faces. "My mother," she explained. "Excuse me for a moment."

She opened her phone as she walked into the dining room. Chloe heard her voice as the door closed. "p.r.o.nto?... Si, ciao. s...o...b..ne, e tu?" "p.r.o.nto?... Si, ciao. s...o...b..ne, e tu?"

Chloe watched the swinging door for a moment after it had closed. She could still hear Antonia's voice, chattering delightedly.

"My mother and I would never talk like that," Chloe said, her voice like coffee left too long in a pot. She looked over at Lillian. "What about you?"

"We did for a while. She died when I was seventeen."

Chloe's face flushed red. "I'm sorry." Then, because she was young and incapable of not asking, "What did you do?"

"I cooked." The motion of Lillian's hands encompa.s.sed the kitchen and the dining room beyond. "And I was lucky-I had Abuelita in my life." She put her hand on Chloe's shoulder for a moment, then picked up the tray and carried it into the walk-in as Antonia came back through the swinging door, laughing.

"My mother, she likes to call me at this time," she said to Chloe. "She says it is the only thing that is good about my living so far away-she can wish me good morning and good night at the same time. Morning for her, night for me. And always, she wants to know when I am coming home to marry Angelo."

"Wait," Chloe interjected. "Who is Angelo?" Lillian, exiting the walk-in, raised one eyebrow.

"Oh, he is fine. A nice man. But he does not want to marry me and I do not want to marry him."

Lillian and Chloe looked at each other.

"I know who you want." Chloe's voice was mischievous. "But will he ever get up the nerve to do anything?" Antonia blushed.

"Now, Chloe." Lillian's admonishment was diluted by a smile she couldn't quite control. "We all know some bread just takes more time to rise."

Chloe laughed. "Yeah, well, I think it might be time to punch the dough, then."

CHLOE ARRIVED HOME at almost midnight that night. Jake was waiting in the kitchen. at almost midnight that night. Jake was waiting in the kitchen.

"I thought you worked Monday nights?" Chloe asked.

"Not this late." He looked at her closely. "You look different. Where were you?"

"With friends." She read his expression. "I'm taking a cla.s.s, okay?"