The Monday Night Cooking School - By Erica Bauermeister Page 0,65
beaters at the egg whites, setting the mixer on a high speed that sent small bubbles giggling to the side of the bowl, where a few became many until they were a white froth rising up and then laying down again in patterns and ridges, leaving an intricate design like the ribs of a leaf in the wake of the beaters.
Next, the mascarpone. Lighter than cream cheese and a bit sweeter, it slid into the cooled egg yolks and sugar, making cream from custard, the color of sweet, freshly churned butter. The heavier egg yolk and mascarpone yielded with a sigh into the egg-white foam; under his hand the mixture grew ever lighter until it seemed to lift itself and the spoon moved through it all without effort.
The whipping cream was last, becoming firmer under the influence of the beaters rather than softer, the peaks finally reaching up to meet the beaters even as he pulled them away in order to add a soft snow shower of grated white chocolate.
Satisfied, Ian set the bowl aside and reached for the savoiardi cookies. He had had ladyfingers as a child—spongy, soft, part of a whipped chocolate freezer dessert, the oval cookies lined up vertically along the outside like debutantes in a receiving line. But the savoiardi were firm, delightfully crisp—if these were ladies, Ian thought with amusement, they were demanding respect. Ian laid them out, one after another, in a row along the bottom of a glass bowl and dipped a brush into the espresso and rum and Grand Marnier. He ran the tip of the brush smoothly along the top of the cookies, each stroke a bit longer than the last, and watched as the liquid sank deeply into their surface, like rain into desert sand.
When the cookies were dense with liquid, Ian gently, carefully spooned a layer of the creamy egg-white–mascarpone across them. When they were covered, he took a sharp knife and ran it along the edge of the bar of bittersweet chocolate, hard and dense, falling in a dark, velvety dust across the creamy white surface, then the milk chocolate, curling off like wood shavings. Then he repeated the whole process again and again until the bowl was almost full, a tower of cake and cream and chocolate. Lincoln logs all grown up, Ian thought, then spread an almost impossibly soft layer of white chocolate and whipping cream across the top.
Ian slid his finger along the edge of the tiramisù, bringing it to his mouth. The texture was warm, creamy and soft, like lips parting beneath his own, the taste utterly lacking in precision, luxurious and urgent, mysterious and comforting. Ian stood in the kitchen, waiting for Antonia, every sense in his body awake and completely alive, and thought that if the stars were suddenly to fall in a great, glorious burst into his kitchen, he would hardly be surprised.
Epilogue
The front door of the restaurant stood open, light spilling across the front porch and into the garden. Outside the gate, the world hustled by, running to the bank before closing time, getting off the bus from work. Inside, the garden was hushed and quiet. The Adirondack chairs sat empty in the cool evening air of early April; the branches of the cherry trees hung heavy with pink and white blossoms, their petals drifting like a spring snow onto the yellow daffodils below.
In the dining room the table was set for ten. The students had been arriving, walking up the path, calling greetings to one another, naturally gravitating in the direction of the kitchen door at the back, only to redirect their steps with a laugh of pleasure toward the front of the restaurant, where the smell of fresh bread and citrus beckoned them inside.
“We certainly are fancy tonight,” Carl said as he entered. He handed Lillian a bouquet of cream-colored roses, intermixed with lavender and rosemary. “These are for you.”
“How beautiful,” Lillian answered, her voice lit with surprise.
“Essential.” Helen kissed her on the cheek.
“I’ll just get water for these,” Lillian said softly, and went to the kitchen for a pitcher to put them in.
Isabelle approached the couple, her eyes dancing, her hand on Chloe’s shoulder. “Helen and Carl, I’d like to introduce you to my new housemate.”
“I’m like the puppy who showed up at the front door.” Chloe grinned.
“And got a whole lot more than she bargained for,” Isabelle added, chuckling.
“That’s perfect,” Helen replied, nodding in satisfaction. “And Chloe, you look simply beautiful tonight.” Chloe dipped her chin,