The Monday Night Cooking School - By Erica Bauermeister Page 0,15

small snaps as the onions met the hot surface. “Make sure the butter doesn’t brown, though,” Lillian cautioned, “or it will taste burned.”

When the pieces of onion began to disappear into the butter, Lillian quickly added the minced ginger, a new smell, part kiss, part playful slap. Garlic came next, a soft, warm cushion under the ginger, followed by salt and pepper.

“You can add some red pepper flakes, if you like,” Lillian said, “and more or less garlic or ginger or other ingredients, depending on the mood you’re in or the one you want to create. Now,” she continued, “we’ll coat the crab and roast it in the oven.

“Carl, could you help me out?” Lillian handed a bottle of white wine to Carl, who pulled the cork with the skill of years of celebrations and dinners. “White wine is perfect with crab.”

Lillian poured the wine into a set of glasses and motioned to Claire. “Could you pass these around?”

One by one Claire carried the glasses to the members of the class—Carl and Helen, Ian, the woman with the beautiful brown eyes, the sad young man, Chloe with the black eyeliner, the woman with the silver hair who smiled absently as if perhaps she knew Claire. Claire returned to her seat.

“Now,” Lillian said, “what I’d like you to do is relax. Listen. Be still. Smell the change in the air as the crab cooks. Don’t worry; I’ll give you time to get to know one another later, but for right now, I want you to concentrate on your senses.”

Claire closed her eyes. The room around her quieted as the students placed notepads on the floor and settled into comfortable positions. Claire’s breathing deepened, filling her lungs, slowing her heart. She felt her shoulder blades slide down the lines of her back and her chin rise, as if to bring the air more easily into her nose. The fragrance of the warming ingredients drifted across the room, seeping into her skin, scents both mellow and intriguing, like the lazy excitement of a finger running down the inside of your arm. When Claire lifted her glass to her lips, the white wine erased the other sensations in a clean, cool wave, only to allow them to return again.

“I’ve warmed some wine and fresh lemon juice,” Lillian noted, “to add at the last minute.” Claire felt the heat from the oven as the door opened and shut, heard the sizzling of the sauce on the crabs, sensed the flavors intensify and change as Lillian added the crisp, clear elements of white wine and lemon.

“Okay, you can open your eyes. Come and eat.” Claire stood up and moved toward the counter with the other students. They stood one another, shoulders gently jostling, and reached into the pan, gingerly taking out pieces of crab and dropping them onto the small plates Lillian had waiting.

“This is incredible, Carl,” Claire heard Helen exclaim softly next to her. “Try a piece.” Helen raised her dripping fingers to Carl’s mouth and fed him a bite. She turned to Claire.

“Have you tried any yet?”

Claire shook her head. “It’s awfully hot, still.”

Helen deftly pulled a piece of meat from the shell. She smiled when she saw Claire’s amazement.

“Asbestos fingers, dear. From years of taking fish sticks from the oven. There are a few benefits. Now, forget all that and eat.”

“Hmmm,” Claire responded, and lifted the crab to her mouth, closing her eyes one more time, shutting out the room around her. The meat touched her tongue and the taste ran through her, full and rich and complicated, dense as a long, deep kiss. She took another bite and felt her feet settle into the floor and the rest of her flow into a river of ginger and garlic and lemon and wine. She stood, even when that bite, and the next and the next were gone, feeling the river wind its way to her fingers, her toes, her belly, the base of her spine, melting all the pieces of her into something warm and golden. She breathed in, and in that one, quiet moment felt herself come back together again.

Slowly, Claire opened her eyes.

Carl

Carl and Helen came to the cooking class together. They were one of those couples that seemed to have been born within close proximity to each other, twins of a nonbiological origin. Nothing physical substantiated the thought; he was tall and tended toward thin, with astonishingly white hair and clear blue eyes, while Helen was shorter, rounder, smiling easily