The Monday Night Cooking School - By Erica Bauermeister Page 0,44

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 shifting 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 space 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 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 class, 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 class. “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 butter across it and sprinkle on some salt.” Chloe lifted the tortilla to her mouth, inhaling the round, warm smell of corn and melting butter, 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 queso fresco, 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