The Monday Night Cooking School - By Erica Bauermeister Page 0,25

kitchen for people to see her in.”

“You’ve dealt with those kind of clients before—more than once, and you’ve done beautifully.”

“But this kitchen—you’d have to see it. I can’t take it apart.”

“But it’s not your kitchen, Antonia, and they are the clients. You’ll have to see through their eyes. Or,” he added teasingly, “figure out a way to make them see through yours.”

WHEN ANTONIA HEARD Lillian announce that that night’s cooking class was to prepare a Thanksgiving dinner, she shuddered. It had been a long weekend; she was no closer to having a design for Susan and Jeff’s kitchen than she had been when she first walked into their house, and she had been hoping to avoid Thanksgiving this year. She had been invited, every year of her four in the United States, to one Thanksgiving fest or another. Americans seemed to love sharing their cultural traditions, as if they were shiny new cars or babies. Every year Antonia sat at a table awash with food, watching serving bowls the size of laundry baskets being passed from one end to the other, dollops of mashed potatoes and creamed onions and cranberry sauce and bread stuffing and whipped yams and hunks of turkey plopping down, one after another, onto a plate already full. The point seemed to be to eat as much as possible before falling asleep. It made a certain sense for a holiday celebrating survival over starvation, and everyone seemed to revel in the excess of it all, but she couldn’t help feeling embarrassed for the food, all smashed together like immigrants in steerage class. She knew, sitting in Lillian’s kitchen, that her face had shown her thoughts and she quickly suppressed them.

“Actually, we’re going to try something a little different tonight,” Lillian said, smiling at Antonia. “I believe in traditions—they hold us together, like bones—but it can be easy to forget what they are really about. Sometimes we need to look from a different perspective to find them again.”

Lillian focused her attention on their faces. “So—what is the essence of Thanksgiving?”

“It’s about coming together,” said Helen warmly. “All these different people, with all their different lives, being a family.”

“Or at my house,” Chloe spoke up, a pinch of bitterness in her words, “it’s about everyone being the same, and if you’re not, eating enough so you won’t notice.” Chloe glanced around at the other students. “Sorry, Helen.”

“Well,” Lillian suggested, “here’s an idea: Instead of thinking about the people, how about we approach the food we will be preparing like the guest list for a dinner party—each dish invited for its own personality, all of them playing off one another to make the meal more interesting.

“And you never know,” she added, “if you treat the food that way, perhaps the people will follow.” Lillian started passing out a stack of menus written on thick white paper. “I’m going to try this at the restaurant this year. I thought it would be fun to do a dry run with the class.”

Antonia looked down at the paper that was passed to her and read:

THANKSGIVING DINNER

Pumpkin ravioli

Stuffed turkey breast with rosemary,

cranberries, and pancetta

Polenta with Gorgonzola

Green beans with lemon and pine nuts

Espresso with chocolate biscotti

“It’s different, I agree,” Lillian noted, “but in the end, you’ll see that almost all the traditional Thanksgiving ingredients are there—even the original Indian corn—it’s just not the way you might expect. We’ll see what it makes you think about Thanksgiving.

“Now, this is a lot to do, so we’ll divide into teams and you can compare notes over dinner. I actually will give you recipes this time—although somehow I think you’ll still find the recipes a little atypical.” Lillian’s eyes were laughing. “Ian and Helen, I’d like you to work on the ravioli; Antonia and Isabelle, you’re on turkey; Carl and Tom, I’ll let you take over the polenta; and Claire and Chloe, you’re in charge of the biscotti. I’ve got your recipes and the ingredients laid out at different stations, and I’m here if you have questions.”

With that, Lillian opened the oven and took out a roasted wedge of pumpkin, its juices sputtering in the bottom of the pan.

“And one more thing,” Lillian added, “we’ll be eating slowly tonight—one course at a time, as they are ready. Every guest at a table should feel appreciated.”

ANTONIA AND ISABELLE stood at their prep area, Isabelle’s silver hair and pale blue eyes making Antonia’s dark hair and olive skin seem even more vibrant. In front of them on the counter lay a