The Monday Night Cooking School - By Erica Bauermeister Page 0,43

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 class—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. 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 ourselves. We would have soaked and cooked dried corn in water and powdered lime to make nixtamal, which we would then have ground into the 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, and I would kneel in front of it and use a 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 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 sweatshirt baggy on her slim shoulders, her eyes dark with liner. She shrugged, a movement as light and casual as wind over grass.

“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 assured, as the students watched her. “Then you pat it,” she said, the ball passing 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 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, pushing 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