I have successfully avoided telling my sister that I am taking this cooking series. She’s an amazing cook, and we have this weird competitive thing anyway. She is the first born, so I’ve spent 33 years trying to show her how cool I am.

In the meantime, she has spent 33 years trying to show me that she will always be cooler.

Handball?  Ass kicked.

Math?  Schooled.

Art?  Penciled out.

Music? Major dweeb.

Beauty?  Honorable mention.

Cool ride? School bus.

Amazing baker?  4000 failed pie crusts.

Equestrian? Horses are scary.

Master of all things European?  ‘Le Failure’ (sp?)

She is always is supreme.

However, we are both controlling , and we always think our certain way is the best way. So bring that into the kitchen, and let’s suffice it to say that things do not always go well.

Last summer we had an unfortunate Tapatio Debacle . I had made scrambled eggs and (to my taste) over-seasoned them in a way that I thought she would enjoy. She loves her flavors. Needless to say, she did not like them. She had a frown. I was annoyed, and when she added hot sauce to them after plating, I started a fight. Ridiculous in hindsight.

Unfortunately,  the result of our fight  involved an emergency call to Super Shuttle and an early flight out.

Her parting shot was: Well she’s not a chef. I should be able to season the scrambled eggs the way that I want.

Not a Chef. The words rang in my already steaming ears.

I immediately enrolled in a professional cooking course.

I NEED THERAPY.

All of that said, you can see how I’ve tried to avoid the subject with her. I’m really doing this for me, but somehow I can still hear her (or maybe my) voice.

Well, it’s not the CIA or Cordon Bleu.

She’s going to think it’s some half-assed local cooking class. The Puck thing will be laughable to her.

But I need to tell her because everyone we know, but she and Grandmere (who doesn’t have e-mail) is reading my updates.

So when I finally, after 4 months, confessed that I had been going to cooking school and writing these diaries, I was admittedly concerned.

It was over the phone.

” I’m taking these cooking courses. Umm, they are really hard. Umm, but fun. I think? And cool? A little?” I said.

“Yeah. Grandmere told me,” she replied. (But she doesn’t have e-mail!)

I was busted.

“Well, they are really hard and kinda intense.”

“Is it at that little place by your house?” she asked, having seen it before.

“Yeah,” I replied lowly.

Mustering up confidence, I added, “The instructor is very well-known. She knows Wolfgang Puck.”

She waited and muttered, “Well, at least you’ll learn how to make a good California pizza.”Grrr.

“We got so much food in America, we’re allergic to food. Allergic to food! Hungry people ain’t allergic to sh*t. You think anyone in Rwanda’s got a f*ckin’ lactose intolerance?” — Chris Rock

What an amazing month I’ve had in cooking school. Last I left you I was bloated and full from an amazingly decadent tasting menu at Maple Drive, my mother had buttered up the home-schooler Sabrina and I was ready to cook.

I came to class  Monday excited to cook fish. The first thing I encountered, however, was Sabrina’s gaping maw in my face.  I braced myself for an attack.

“Oh, your mother is so lovely! She was so charming. She made everybody feel comfortable. Why don’t you come and sit next to me? We can be partners on the next recipe!”

I stood in the middle of the room completely dumbfounded. Oh my God! Is she being nice to me?

And like some dumb kid on the playground, I forgot all transgressions and skipped off with her to play on the swings.

She was my partner for the next lesson.

It’s really hard to think, let alone write, while a human being is screaming in your face.

If I had a nickel for every time someone said to me, Well, you’re home all day. Why don’t you write some articles on the side and make some cash?, I’d be paying our next month’s mortgage.

It’s hard to do anything with a toddler in your house. I thank the Lord when I come out of the shower and Hannah is still alive. Truly. So here it is, 10:25 on a Tuesday night, the kids are asleep, I’m so exhausted I feel like the meat’s gonna fall off my bones, but I feel compelled to bore you with my last three weeks of cooking class.

We’ve done soup, salad and pasta since we last spoke. And somehow, it’s all gone well.

The biggest highlight was when I walked into the fish class with my homework, a white/chicken stock and a brown/beef stock. We lined them all up together so Chef could do a blind tasting. As I anticipated, my white stock sucked. As she dipped her tablespoon into the plastic cup that held my stock, she slurped and shook her head and said, “Too much water. Bitter.”

Then it was time to taste the brown stocks. Again, she went down the line, plastic cup by plastic cup, slurping from her tablespoon until she got to mine. It sat in its container a deep, rich brown.  It was darker than anything next to it, which made me fear that I had completely screwed it up. She dipped her big tablespoon into my stock, sipped it, and asked, “Who’s is this?”

I slowly turned and said, “Um, it’s mine.”

Quietly, she said, almost mumbling, “This is the best brown stock a student has ever brought me.”

I faced her and quietly said, “Thank you.”

Then I turned around and said to myself, “Yesss!”

I feel like I’m totally lagging on this journal. Well, it’s probably because I am. When was Mother’s Day? And what day is it now? When I left off we were going to go on a field trip. And we did.

Our class took a field trip to Maple Drive. It’s a restaurant in Beverly Hills that’s been re-invented as of September ’03 by Chef Eric Klein and his wife Tori.

He was Executive Sous Chef at Spago, hence the connection once again to Puck-land, and he and Chef are friends. Once a year he creates a multi-course tasting meal for students of my school, and at the end he comes out of the kitchen for some Q & A.

I took Mom. It was the Tuesday before Mother’s Day, and it was a nice chance for two old broads to get dolled up and drink and eat in a fancy place.

We grabbed a good parking spot – one point! But we arrived and it was tables of eight with strangers (students from other classes that I had not met yet) – minus two points.

Mom loved Tori! She has a southern accent and pretty blonde hair. She ran the operation outside of the kitchen. She talked for a long time about how much work it is running a restaurant. How financially, emotionally and physically demanding it can be. She stressed that it must truly be your life’s passion or forget it.

She also felt like she needed to make sure that we knew what each course was. I guess so we could appreciate it more?  She talked so much that I had trouble really enjoying my meal.

She was quizzing us, “What type of lemon is this in the vinaigrette?”

Somebody chirped, “”Meyer?”

“Well tell me,” Tori said, “Of what two fruits is Meyer  a hybrid?”

At which point, I wanted to say, “It’s the you-shut-up-for-ten-seconds fruit crossed with the ’cause-I’m-trying-to-enjoy-my-$100’s-worth-of-food fruit.”

Instead I muttered, ” Lemon and mandarin orange.”

Just then, Sabrina, the home-schooler, fluttered in with thick locks of brunette hair behind her, stressed that she was twenty minutes late. The only seat left was next to Mom.

“Oh my God!” I thought. “The antagonist of this entire cooking course  is seated next to my mother!”

And Mom instantly began chatting it up with her like it was her job. I was annoyed. I kept trying to hand her clues. “Mom, this is Sabrina. She’s home-schooled all of her children. Isn’t that great Mom? Mom? Home-schooler? Right? Sabrina’s the one I’ve been telling you about!”

My mother just continued to savor every bite, chat away and smile like I was mute.

Chef Eric had put together an amazing tasting menu. Eight courses, six wines paired with the first six courses and a lovely glass of perfectly chilled Lillet to accompany the last two courses: a tangerine granita that was hands down  the most perfect dessert I have ever had, and a chocolate souffle with deep chocolate sauce poured into the middle and surrounded by freshly made pralines. It was so fantastic that everybody licked their plates clean.

It was there, however, that the dinner took a lull. We were all waiting for the promised tour of the kitchen and lecture from Chef Eric that Chef had promised.

But then chaos quietly erupted when Rod Stewart walked in and he wanted his meal done in a certain way.

And then Garry Marshall walked in. And he wanted his dinner a certain way too.

Chef Eric was whisked away into the kitchen. It was 10:40, and I was tired. Other students ended up bailing, but I felt compelled to stay. On one hand I was genuinely interested in learning from such an obviously talented Chef, but also I wanted to make a good impression on my teacher.

Chef had the remaining students gather around one table. We sat and waited for Chef Eric to come and greet us. And finally he did.

I whispered to Mom, “He looks like he’s thirty!”

“Oh no,” she said, “He looks at least your age, if not your sister’s, and Tori is definitely forty.”

When the smoke cleared, Eric spoke to us in the thickest Alsatian accent that I could hardly understand him. Only Chef, for whom English can sometimes be elusive,  could translate what he was trying to say.

Apparently, his first sentence was, “I have cooked for sixteen years, that is, since I was fourteen.”

I turned to Mom and I said, “See. He’s thirty.”

Chef Eric shared with us his philosophy about staying true to yourself. Cook with your personality and style. Make each customer feel like you are cooking for them in your home. Work hard. Work hard. Work hard.

He was fascinating and so gracious to take the time to talk with us.

Suddenly, Mom started to get really tense about Garry Marshall being there. I’m not sure why, and I’ll probably never know. It probably had nothing to do with him, either. That’s ONE OF the tough parts about being the child of the psychologist to the stars, even when somebody cool is there, you get grabbed by the wrist and yanked out of the party.

So we left.

We were so happy, though. We had the Mother’s Day Trifecta: amazing food, fantastic wine and Rod Stewart. I think we embraced twice.

When we stopped off for gas in Brentwood, I turned to her and said, “You totally missed all of my cues, Sabrina is that one I was telling you about! The one who hates me! She’s out to get me!”

And Mom turned to me and said, “It’ll be fine now. I’ve buttered her up, and she won’t give you any more problems.”

Hmmm. It took me awhile to ponder how that could be.

And then I dropped Mom off,  feeling surprisingly okay.

Last week was so great. I’m so tired, but since Joe’s laptop is available, I’m going to pound out as much as I can.

More meat, which I think should replace “Go Jules” as my license plate, was the theme of the class last Monday.

Even after being tardy, and cooking the worst dish, my veal curry, I was ready to cook.

The best dish, by the way, was made by Not-Gay-Lance (NGL) and his sidekick, John. They made Pork Loin chops stuffed with fruit and bread served in brown sauce.

I came home with Wellington, steak au poivre, and creme brulee…but Joe’s favorite was NGL’s pork chops. Surprised?

This week Chef was on a high. She had just come back from Baltimore. It was the IACP convention. She was nominated, and made the cut to be one of 8 contenders for best culinary teacher in the world. She was then surprised to find herself among the top three finalists.

She was up against on star of the Food Network and a world-renowned Chef/prolific cookbook author. Chef did not win, but was still glowing at competing amongst their ranks.

BALTIMORE! Here’s my “in”.

“Where did you dine there?” I asked like an over-eager freshman.

She rattled off ten names that I didn’t even recognize.

Having been born there, and visited many times since, I love Baltimore.  My favorite place to eat is a small family restaurant called Perring Place. It serves the best Maryland crab cake on the planet, but it’s tucked in a suburb and a different time-space continuum than the places Chef was reminiscing about.  My “in” was gone.

Her favorite place in Baltimore is “THE BICYCLE”.

Totally off my radar.

And let’s not forget that she is from Puck-Land.

Her idea of a crab cake, I’m sure, will have panko and a roasted red pepper coulis.

A true Maryland crab cake has six ingredients:

Wonder bread, Old Bay Seasoning, Lump Blue Crab, Hellman’s Mayonnaise, Egg (to hold it together) and lard to fry it in until its golden and glistening.

The end result is a brackish and sweet two-scoop mound of crab, perfectly crunchy on its exterior and creamy and decadent until the last bite… plated perfectly with a side of sloppy cole slaw, over-cooked green beans or ancillary french fries.

It’s the best meal you will ever have.

When the lecture ended I was fabricating a rack of pork (again, vegetarians, log out immediately). I was trying to separate the treasured center pork loin from the ribs.

As expected, I was struggling. I was so nervous about not cutting close enough to the bone and wasting any precious meat that I was gingerly chopping at the loin like a bad masseuse.

Chef came over. “See all of these chopping marks in the meat? You see them?”

“Uhh. Yeah”

“That is not what we want.”

“Oh yeah. Umm, Okay?”

“I think you need to be less, well, how do I say… afraid’?”

BINGO!

“Just do it. Cut the meat from the bone like this.”

And after one deft swing of the boning knife sat before us a perfect pork loin.

I was in awe. To punctuate how impressed I was, I graced her with my praise, “Ummm. Uh-uh. Yeah.”

Time to cook.

Again I paired with Alice, and also, this time, an outcast of the home-schooling  group– Ashley.

Alice is cool. We work well together. She can stand me! She’s in marketing and lives in Malibu. She has a husband she met in college (JUST LIKE ME!).

Ashley has two young boys. She stays at home while her husband runs his own production company.

While Alice donned her cooking cap with the embroidered logo “Got Wine?”, and Ashley and I compared notes on living with a producer who is a car enthusiast on the side, I thought…

It’s Kismet!

They put me in charge of carving up the meat (3 bandaids, two tablespoons of antiseptic and an rubber glove later), Alice diced the veggies, and Ashley concocted a fabulous stuffing for the pork tenderloin which we served with a roasted tomato chipotle sauce.

We also made center-cut boneless pork loin chops in a red wine sauce (which broke-or separated) with roasted endive and sauteed apples. Not memorable.

But the best part of this class was learning to plate.

Usually, we all plate our dishes to platter, family-style, for an informal tasting. This time we all were seated,  while each group plated 14 individual plates for us to enjoy.

Every plate must look exactly the same. The plate must be warm. Traditionally, meat sits at 3 o’clock, veggie at 6 o’clock and potato at 9, and optional garnish at 12. Each portion must be exactly the same size as everyone else’s.

(Apparently there are a lot of sideways glances in restaurants, and disgruntled diners checking out the size of each others portions. So to speak.)

Finally, at 11:40pm, we sat at a long table with two giant jugs of cheap wine that called to our plastic cups. Never before have I been so happy to see the word “Woodbridge” in front of me.

We all drank and ate until we were too full to speak. The best meal again came from NGL. Rack of lamb served over a tian (layered sauteed vegetables) with gorgonzola sauce. In other words… heaven.

It was so great that when I came home in the middle of the night, my mom (who was sleeping over) and Joe devoured the last of it whilst in their pajamas. Apparently, Joe had coached her. He explained that if she stayed up until I got home, she would get leftovers!

Little did we know that this meal would quickly be eclipsed.

My class was going to take a field trip.

More tomorrow.

Wow. It’s been too long since I’ve written. It’s funny, once you are used to using a laptop, sitting down at a desk and typing on a desktop computer seems almost impossible. Well, maybe that’s only the case for harried stay-at-home moms who never seem to be in any place except the kitchen, laundry room or car.

Yes, I know. Joe and I both suggested putting the desktop iMac in the kitchen, but it’s not airport compatible, so it would have to be hardwired to the blahbity, blahbity, blah, blah, blah. Anyway, it wasn’t gonna happen.

Last I left you I was talkin’ tough and ready to sear some meat. Well, Monday afternoon rolled around, and it was 104 degrees outside. At 5:55pm I was hanging out in the backyard in a sundress spraying the girls with a hose and wondering if and when Joe would come home so that I could get ready for class. I was secretly praying that he would be stuck in some meeting until midnight, and I could blame my apathy squarely 100% on him.

No such luck. 5:56pm he rushed in, took over the hose and said “Sorry. Long meeting. You better hurry,”

Can’t he ever do anything right?

I put on my required long pants, long-sleeved shirt, socks and tennis shoes. I grabbed my oppressive heat-trapping baseball cap, knives, textbook and notes and headed to hell’s kitchen to carve up animal carcasses and learn how to serve them to the masses.

I was ten minutes late, and when I arrived everyone was in groups getting everything mise en place. When I walked in, they stopped and stared at me. “She’s so late,” they whispered to each other.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said lamely.

I rolled up my sleeves and learned how to cut up an entire side of beef. What I would call “butchering” is actually termed “fabricating” in the kitchen. Fabricating is the term for breaking down an animal carcass into consumer cuts. Today, we were going for the tenderloin…the prized filet. The filet is so tender and surprisingly flavorful considering how lean it is.

Joe and I love filet mignon.  The best we’ve ever had was at a restaurant outside of Santa Barbara called the Hitching Post. They were so tender that neither of us needed a knife. We cut our steaks with our forks and licked our plates clean.

In her lecture Chef just so happened to mention The Hitching Post as a place where “they serve ridiculous portions, and the people that go there are such gluttons that they actually lick their plates clean!”

Ouch. I’ll keep it to myself.

The reason the filet is so tender is that it never gets exercised. Its purpose as a part of the cow (all vegetarians should log out immediately) is to sit on the inside of the rib cage and act as a cushion for the internal organs. Less exercise means more tender.

From the  tenderloin, four consumer cuts are fabricated. Many of the names are used interchangeably and it can be confusing. Here is the consensus from two of my favorite references: LaRousse Gastronomique and Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Chateaubriand is cut from the middle of the tenderloin and should be 3 -4 inches in diameter. Next is the tournedo at 2 1/2 inches, and at the end of the tenderloin is the filet mignon which can be as small as 1 1/2 inches.

We were working with tournedos which we trimmed well, seasoned, seared over high heat and cooled.

I placed my tournedo on the edge of  a square of  puff pastry. I then topped it with a dollop of duxelle (dook-SEHL) — which is finely diced and sauteed mushrooms, shallots and herbs. On that I plopped and a dollop of spinach mousse. We then pulled the puff over top and tucked it under the bottom of the meat  to make individual Beef Wellingtons.

After a quick egg wash, cutting a small vent on top, and decorating with extra pastry, they went into the oven — 12 -15 minutes at 450* and then let them go another 10 at 350*. Keep your eye out. You want the pastry to be golden, not dark brown.

These were delicious, but really rich. They can be served with a sauce like bearnaise or a simple reduction, but they stand up on their own too.

We also had to each fabricate and trim a NY Strip. If you imagine a Porterhouse steak, On side of the bone has the NY Strip and the other side has the filet. NY Strip is delicious!  We coated ours in peppercorns and seared them for Steak Au Poivre. We deglazed the pan with Brandy (my eyebrows survived) and reduced the pan juices with Port to make a very yummy sauce.

Then we broke up into groups to cook a recipe.

The home-schooler already had her group of glaring girlies. She doesn’t seem to particularly care for me. The boys were already busy rolling out the puff pastry. Crazy Linda was not there.

So, I paired with Alice and Calabasas Jerry.  Calabasas Jerry is new. He’s as old as the Statue of Liberty. He and his wife were on a cruise to the Antarctic last semester, and although he is a graduate, he needed to make up this particular class.

Alice needs a new haircut. I’m pretty sure she still has a “Members Only” jacket and pair of L.A. Gear high tops in her winter collection. She seems a bit trapped in the 80s, fashion-wise…

But VERY nice.

She also seemed to be avoiding the home-schooler, too. Maybe she and I are on the same page about that.

Our recipe: Veal Curry with a Mango and Cashew garnish. Yeah, I know. What a waste of veal.

(Here I must apologize to my friend  Loren, who once chanted, “Out of the crate and off the plate!” as I wolfed down my Veal con Funghi at La Ginestra in Mill Valley.)

I was in charge of fabricating the veal shoulder into bite size pieces. The hardest part for me was trimming off all of the ‘silverskin’– which is a membrane attached to the meat under the fat. When cooked it shrinks up and is tough. That took forever. You have to hold the membrane taut at one end and slide you boning knife between it and the meat. The trick is to let the knife slide it’s way down and not saw away at it.

Calabasas Jerry, meanwhile,  prepared the saffron rice. It looked and smelled delicious.

I browned the veal and deglazed, while Alice peeled, pitted and chopped the mango and minced the cashews. While the veal braised in the curry sauce, we kept tasting it. It was so bland. Salt wasn’t helping, ginger wasn’t helping and curry powder wasn’t helping. Alice remarked that this was the most bland curry she had ever made. Jerry and I agreed.

When we plated and served, Chef took a taste and paused. Her eyes looked up to the ceiling and then back down at us and she tasted it again. A long pause was followed with,  “It’s a little boring.”

Alice and I looked at each other.

I could tell that she was thinking  what I was thinking, “Well,Chef,  it’s your recipe. A%*hole”.

I can’t even remember where I left off. As most of you may know, I killed my computer. An entire glass of Jepson Sauvignon Blanc tipped over (that’s what I get for drinking sauv blanc) after my last journal and killed my computer.  Yes, I suck. Everything is gone. Joe’s not happy.

But, due to popular demand, I am writing the next cooking school journal from our ancient iMac in the upstairs “office”. Let’s see how far I get before the children find me.

Let me begin by saying that I have had two glorious weeks off from school. I didn’t miss it one friggin’ bit. I never knew how great Monday nights were until these last two weeks. Monday nights rock! As long as you’re not standing in a hot, crowded kitchen filled with people constantly judging every nuance of your existence, Monday nights are completely underrated.

As I last left you, it was time to break off into groups and I picked Lance. We would be making puff pastry. Everyone in the room agreed that almost all home chefs and many professional chefs go the Pepperidge Farm route. That is, instead of making puff from scratch, which is time-consuming, many buy frozen pre-made puff pastry like Pepperidge Farm. A better alternative is from a company in NY called Dufour. While Pepperidge is made with shortening, Dufour is all-butter making it a much superior product. (I’ve also heard, but not tried Trader Joe’s puff pastry, which is inexpensive and also uses all-butter).

However, we were told that we needed to know how to make it ourselves. It’s a basic, classic and essential culinary skill.

Chef gave us a step-by-step demo, and then it was our turn. It was cool really. You make a classic pastry dough and roll it out into a perfect rectangle. Then you plunk a “Butter Block” on the center. Puff Pastry is all about layers.

So basically you fold your dough over a block of butter and roll it out. Then you fold it again and again, turning it each time. You need to make sure that each fold is a perfect rectangle.

The big trick is that you have to fridge it after every two folds…otherwise the butter gets too warm and you screw it up.

It can take a day.

When you are done you have a 1/4 inch thick sheet of puff pastry. When baked, the water in the butter turns to steam causing the dough to rise and separate into layers.

Think about a croissant which is made from a similar pastry dough. Notice how the croissant separates into layers of flaky goodness? Well, that’s like puff pastry.

And that’s also why we’re all fat.

Butter.

So, when the day was done…and literally done ( it was midnight when I drove home with my pear tart and creme brulee), I had survived the pastry course. Working with Lance was easy. He took charge of the initial rolling out so that I didn’t lose my mind with sticky dough stuck all over the board and pin. He was quite liberal with the flouring I must say, and he didn’t hesitate at all. I gotta learn that.

Rolling, blocking, folding, rolling, blocking, chilling. There was a method to the madness. And while the dough chilled, so did I. I got a chance to chat and began to feel more comfortable with my classmates (with a couple of exceptions).

I am not a pastry gal (or as Arthur pointed out my typo last round “a pasty” girl). I am a meat girl.

Luckily, the next two sessions are about meat. Wellington-done that. Filet-own it. Reduction-done it. Veal stock-yep. Sauce Bernaise-oh, yeah.

Bring it on.

The most important thing I’ve learned so far is “just do it”. No, I’m not sponsored by Nike (although open to any offers),  but I spend a lot of time in my small life worrying that I’m going to do it wrong. I have spent too much time in this class afraid to make a mistake. I apologize for errors I haven’t even made yet.

It’s time for me to let myself do it wrong and learn to do it better. Or maybe I’ll surprise myself and do it right.

Although I’ll miss my awesome Monday nights at home, I am, to be honest, looking forward to getting back in the kitchen next week.

Bring on the meat!

Last time I burdened you all with my Stepford woes. It’s so self-indulgent to pity myself, I know. Although writing long-winded e-mail updates about oneself is pretty self-indulgent, too. I hope I’m not annoying everybody. Although, I guess if I were, you wouldn’t be reading this. So who the hell am I talking to?

Some of you apparently are not annoyed because I’ve received a few inquiries asking:  How was Pastry?

Pastry, in fact, was really hard for me, not only because I had those two lovely glasses of wine before class, but also because pastry sucks.

“Pastry takes a lot of patience,”  Layla the TA told me.

I’ve learned some patience from my kids. Never before did I think it would take twenty minutes to get from the car to the front door. Never before did I think that I could handle that. But I do. Several times each day.

My dad is a great baker. He learned from my great-grandmother. He comes over to my house with the most beautiful and delicious pies I have ever seen or enjoyed. Watching him make them is just as wonderful as eating them. He cuts the butter into the flour with unknowingly perfect finesse. It’s an art. Truly.

My attempts at making pie crust have been disheartening. Either you have it or you don’t.  I don’t have it.

It’s really hard to roll out dough. It sticks to the rolling pin. The remedy is to coat the pin with flour, but purists will wag their finger: Don’t add too much flour. You’re tampering with the chemistry of the dough. But if you don’t add enough, the dough sticks and that makes me insane. I guess I actually have no patience.

We were going to make a  pear tart with creme au beurre noisette.

Beurre noisette ( buhr nwahz-et) is browned butter. It’s the sauce for Julia’s Sole Meuniere. Once, my best friend Sara and I noisette-d the beurre so well after two bottles of La Crema, that it took me two weeks to clean the kitchen.

So the tart will be pear halves baked in a pastry shell filled with a browned butter custard. Sounds good!

Chef did her demo on making the perfect custard and poured the results into ramekins that we all brought from home.  Little doggie bags are one of the best parts of cooking school. “Great!” she said, ” You all brought several ramekins. Jules? You only brought two? Well, okay.”

I looked at my notes: bring two ramekins.

The Chef made one last announcement before we split into groups. “There will be no class next week. It’s Spring Break.”

The latest newbie to our group is an Italian woman personal chef. She has no name that I know of and apparently speaks almost  no English.

It took Chef ten minutes to explain to her that we have no class next week.

“”Ohh? I no understand.”

“You will not come next week.”

“Ohh?”

“Next week there is no class.”

“Umm, I come Wednesday?”

“No. There is no class next week.”

“I sorry. Ummm, next week there is class?”

“No. Next week there is no class.”

“Should I come next week?”

“No.”

“So, maybe then I will come next week?”

“No. Next week there is no class.”

Like a divine intervention, Lance jumped up. He ripped the calendar from the back of his syllabus, lunged forward and said, “There is no class next week. See? (pointing to the calendar). Don’t come. Okay?”

“Oh. Okay.”

I decided to be in Lance’s group.

I had a full plate this week.

Tuesday was the first meeting of my new Daisy girl scout troop for Lilly. I’ve volunteered to be the leader. A lot of work?  Maybe. But, I never want my middle kid to tell Oprah that I was a lousy mom.

Wednesday I had Lucy’s Brownie Troop here at the house for a “cooking class” to earn their ‘Make it, Eat it’ (hold all jokes) badge for their brownie vests.

Thursday is the Kindergarten Carnival where I am in charge of the tattoo booth.

It sounds trivial, but trust me, in suburbia this is all a huge deal.

Luckily, on Friday I get to blow off some steam with a rousing game of Bunko with the other Stepford wives.  I will sip a glass of domestic mineral water and try and stave off the D. T. ‘s  while I gossip about the goings-on at Stepford Elementary.

So, with all of that ahead of me, and last week’s chicken debacle still leaving a nasty taste in my mouth, I didn’t want to go to school on Monday.

After serving mom, the girls and the doggies dinner, I stood in the kitchen detailing how the Home-Schooler has completely sabotaged my entire culinary career, while repeating my new, new mantra: “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.”

Joe came home just then. “Go! It’s late!”

It was only 5:49. Class didn’t start until six.

I poured myself a glass of wine.

“I don’t really feel like going”, I said, gnawing on Hannah’s hamburger.

“Why?” Mom asked in her best therapist voice.

“It’s pastry. I hate baking.”

“Why?” Therapy-ish voice again.

“There are two types of cooks. People who like to bake, and everyone else.” I replied, gulping down the last 2 oz. of wine.

“Oh. Just go. Show the home-schooler who’s the boss,” Mom replied, therapist voice now glaringly absent.

5:54 pm.

I poured myself a second glass.

“Blah, blah, don’t want to go, blah, blah, blah.”

Gulped down the wine.

Began collecting my things: two ramekins, tart pan, knife set, text book, notebook…

“Blah, blah, waste of time, blah, blah, too tired, blah, blah, blah.”

I wolfed down the burger, popped an Altoid, grabbed my knife case and hit the road.

Crap!

Our menu: Chicken stock, Brunoise-stuffed Chicken Legs with Sauce Supreme, Chicken Cordon Bleu, Panko-crusted Chicken Nuggets, Chicken Lollipops (chicken wings in which you scrape all of the meat to one end making it resemble a lollipop), and the Gravy to Chef’s roasted chicken that she perfectly trussed.

A lot for two ladies to prepare in one hour for sure.

Home-Schooler Sabrina and I began with the stock. I cleaned and handed her chopped veggies as she dumped carcasses into giant stock pots and covered them with water. Then they sat on the back burners as we began to brunoise.

Basically we had to julienne then dice carrots, celery, onion, leek and ham into cute little cubes and saute them in oil. That was going to be our stuffing. We were really solidly focusing on that until Chef sauntered up to our cooking station.

“This would be a great recipe to add some of your own personal flair…add some cheese and herbs or whatever you think would be good.”

Then she was gone as soon as she came.

Bewildered, I offered up the idea of breadcrumbs and parmesan, cheating from a Bruce Aidells recipe of chicken legs stuffed with his sausage and the aforementioned. A delicious recipe! My potluck go-to dish. (To be honest, though, after sitting next to him at Chez Panisse, where he really could have used two chairs instead of one, I take his recipes and file them in the once-a-year category.)

Home Schooler Sabrina was hell bent on goat cheese. More power to her. You could spread goat cheese on just about anything, and I would eat it.

I offered up, “Do you want me to mix up the goat cheese with the brunoise?”

“No. I’m just going to lay it on top of the stuffing.”

Hmm. Okay.

The first dish we plated were those legs…and the big critique was that the goat cheese sat in the middle like a giant bog… and again there was no color. White chicken + white cheese = No fun.

Chef would have put some gorgeous and colorful herb with that making the presentation almost orgasmic.

Right.

It went downhill from there.

I added all the butter to the Sauce Supreme in one fell swoop, forgetting the 2 tablespoons that were to be reserved for the glistening swirl at the end. Crap!

Sabrina was about to speed-dial her attorney to file a case against me.

Ugh.

I baked the “lollipops” instead of deep-frying them, the way Chef had implied but never instructed.

(However, that’s the way Julia does them.)

5 points off!

Everything else ended up being a disaster.

We forgot the bouquet garni in the stock.

I used a prepared sauce from the school fridge to dip the lollipops.I think at least one TA shuddered in disgust. I also think Chef was about to cry.

On top of all of that…

There were too many times when Sabrina would yell over the crowd…”JULES?Are you interested in helping with this, or should I do it?” Just passive-aggressively loud enough to be heard by everyone.

BITCH!

There is nothing worse than a martyr. And she was a great one.

So….

It was a tough night.

I totally screwed every dish up.

How could that be?  I have spent five days trying to sort all of it out in my mind.

It was a whole different thing to be the 20 year-old junior in college, trying to impress your college professor, in an environment where you just want to be the smartest in the room (except for that Asian girl).

This is different. I’m paying a lot of money for this course. Not to simply be the smartest or most popular, but to really learn. I need this knowledge. Otherwise, what’s the point? Even if I’m not the most-liked,  I want to be a cook.

Maybe my job is to be wrong.

A lot of the time.

So they can teach me how to do it right.

And make it worth my while.

And worth every dollar.