The Monday Night Cooking School - By Erica Bauermeister Page 0,42

unpacked the wine and the canned tomatoes, the meat and the bouillon cubes. The garlic had been dusty black with mold at the supermarket, so she had decided to try the produce stand. It was cold outside, and the produce stand was a half-mile toward the other side of town, but she felt full of energy at the thought of the meal she would prepare. Chloe left the apartment, wrapping a scarf around her neck and pulling it up to her nose, breathing in her own moisture, the cold tickling her eyelashes.

She reached the stand, stamping the blood back into her feet, and entered into the relative warmth of the fabric-sided enclosure. After the winter outside, it was a carnival of life, mounds of green peppers and red apples, neon oranges, spiky-edged artichokes and furry little kiwis. She found the garlic but couldn’t resist a round red tomato that looked as if it had just been pulled from the vire.

The shop owner approached her. “Can I help you?” he asked, a bit warily. There was a high school nearby; the fruit stand was a logical destination for a five-finger lunch.

Chloe, caught up in the red depths of the tomato, missed the admonishment in his voice and turned with a smile. “Where did you get such a beautiful tomato?”

The shop owner’s face relaxed. “I grew it myself, indoors,” he said. “I only bring in a few of them.”

“I’m making a special tomato sauce today,” Chloe explained, pride and embarrassment mixed in her voice. Then she saw his face. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t put this in the sauce.” She tried to figure out how to explain. “It’s just to help me remember why.”

The shop owner regarded her appraisingly. “It’s yours,” he said with a nod. “The garlic, you can pay for.”

WHEN CHLOE had come back into the apartment, she could smell meat cooking. Jake was standing at the stove, watching the frying pan.

“Hey, thanks for picking up groceries,” he exclaimed. “Burgers will be ready in a couple minutes.”

“I was going to make pasta…” Chloe stopped.

“Oh, that’ll take too much time.” He saw her looking at the open bottle in his hand. “Good wine, babe, thanks,” he commented, taking a drink. “Are you trying to butter me up for Valentine’s Day?”

Chloe shook her head. “I’ll be right back. I have to do something.”

“Well, hurry, the burgers are almost ready.”

Chloe went downstairs and around to the back of the apartment building. She stood with her back against the wall, breathing hard.

“Stupid girl,” she muttered to herself. “What did you think was going to happen?”

Then she lifted the lid of the huge blue rubbish bin and threw in the small paper bag she had been holding.

THE NEXT NIGHT at work, Chloe had broken two wineglasses and put a cutting knife in the pot sink full of water. When the dishwasher yanked his hand out and let loose a veritable paella of Spanish invective, Lillian pulled Chloe aside.

“Now you aren’t paying attention.”

Chloe looked at her, panicked. “Please don’t fire me.”

“I’m not firing you, Chloe. I’m paying attention to you. This is what that looks like. Can you do that for me tonight?”

Chloe nodded.

“And make sure you come to class on Monday.”

WHEN 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.

“Sorry I’m late,” she called out. “I had to get a few things together.”

She wound her way through the assembled 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 class—“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 blustery 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.

“Class,” said