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.

I guess you know how successful your day is going to be when your horoscope reads: “You will be completely lacking in social skills today, but those that matter will overlook your bad behavior.”

I fell asleep on the couch Monday afternoon studying  chicken. The art of trussing a dead bird does not make compelling reading.

But I did complete my other assignment, buying a boning knife (insert boning jokes here…except for Joe who has already exhausted all possibilities).

I ended up with the Whustof non-professional model. It had good hand-feel (alright, already) and was not 8 million dollars. Plus it was well-balanced and the steel ran from tip to end (yeah, I got it).

So I came to class completely a-social and only partially prepared.

Nice.

Today there were two newbies. One was a guy named John. Boy, was not-gay-Lance stoked.He wasn’t going to be the only dude anymore.  Also there was a very tall woman in her late thirties (in my chair) who looked like she was crazy.

And, lucky for all of us, she was.

Her name is Linda, and she took this class sixteen years ago but didn’t finish. Yes, sixteen. For some lucky reason, every Monday night for the next nine months now works for her and she is going to finish in my class. Woo hoo.

Linda talks at odd times and often says very inappropriate things. Let’s sum it up by saying that she lives in Manhattan Beach.

Chef arrived 30 minutes late.

After a brief oral quiz…

“How many cups in a pint? Jules?”

“Uh?”

“Lance?”

“2”

“Excellent!”

“How cold should your refrigerator be? John?”

“41 degrees” (Sh*t! I knew that one.)

“How many pints in a quart? Jules?”

“Uh?”

“Sabrina?”

“4?”

“No. Lance?”

“2”

“Excellent!”

Men 3 – Women 0.

“How many quarts in a gallon? Sabrina?”

“Fooourrrr?”

“Are you sure?”

“No?”

“Lance.”

“Four.”

“Very good!”

Great start.

Then she showed us how to truss a whole chicken and bone it (I still get it).  Then she reviewed the basics of making a stock:

Chicken bones, all leftover parts into the pot (except the liver which is too bitter when boiled. She recommends frying it up and having it as a snack while the stock boils. I’m beginning to think she is a bit Hannibal Lechter-esque).  Add 50% onion (or 25% onion and 25% green parts of leek) 25% carrots 25% celery, cover completely with water and simmer for at least two hours, constantly skimming off the raft– the funky foam stuff. And don’t forget your bouquet garni: bundled herbs (your choice but generally thyme, parsley, bay leaves and marjoram tied together with twine and then tied to the stock pot handle for easy removal). Never add salt or pepper. That would make it a seasoned stock otherwise known as broth, which is a whole different ball game.

Then we all grabbed our new knives as the TA’s passed out a cutting board and whole chicken to each of us. It was now time to dismantle the bird. I slyly moved myself from my current position next to Crazy Linda and tucked myself next to Not Gay Lance. He has a lot of knives.

We started by cutting the legs off, then the wings and then the breasts. We went back and carefully dug out the oyster or nugget of prime meat which is located next to the thigh joint.

When it was time to hack off the tip of the drumstick bone, I turned to Lance and asked if I could borrow his cleaver. I don’t have one nor have ever owned one. My mother has a distinct aversion to large knives (ask her one day and she’ll tell you why. It’s an inspired story that I have heard on average about two times per month for the last 30 years). The sharpest knife in my house as a kid was the butter knife.

He handed me his clever, and as I gripped the end of the chicken leg with one hand and raised the clever into the air with the other, everyone in the room screamed, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

I guess that wasn’t the safest way to do it. So then I became so nervous that I gingerly tapped at the end of the chicken bone with this giant blade doing absolutely no hacking but completely splintering the bone. Lance grabbed the knife, pushed me aside and hacked off the bone in one deft motion.

“Oh. Thanks.” I said.

It was time to go into groups. Sign-ups were on the fridge.

Lance’s group was full. Crazy Linda already had two partners (people who were seated very far away from her and did not yet know she was crazy).

I signed up with Sabrina who had the most recipes to cook… again the challenging menu.

Within the first two minutes I learned from Sabrina, whom already had everything mise en place, that she has devoted the last 18 years of her life to home-schooling her 8 children.

CRAP!

So, I’ve already received two calls looking for the latest update.

Last night’s class was a real challenge, in more ways than one.

The topic was chicken.

I’ve already begun and erased too many updates with an allegory about rooster becoming chicken.

Let’s just say that I arrived home at midnight  looking and smelling like a greasy dead bird.

More tomorrow.

The lecture began with “Food Safety”.

All fridges should be set to 41 degrees or less. That is the safe temp for all perishable foods. Your freezer should be at 0 degrees.

Chicken needs to be cooked to 165 degrees, the same temp is safe for any foods in steamers or kept warm. That can last for 4 hours. After 4 hours they are in the “danger zone”. Bacteria invades. Then they need to be 86’d (apparently the cooking term for the round file).

Botulism (improper canning), Strep (sick workers handling your food), salmonella (uncooked poultry, eggs, milk, custards and mayo) and of course, e. coli (we know where he lurks) are the bacteria most commonly among us.

Parasites…. well let’s just say that after last night’s lecture, I will never again order swordfish prepared in any style (Chef had a lovely once-at-the-fishmonger’s-I-saw story).

Part Two of the lecture we talked about the “Brigade” or the hierarchy in a kitchen.

At the Top:

• Chef (his coat has covered buttons)  the manager of the kitchen.
• Sous Chef (his coat has frogs in place of buttons)  in charge of food production.
• Chefs de partie (plastic buttons) There are many of these, each with a different job  i.e., sauces, fish, pastry, the grill, etc.

Then finally there are the rest of us:

• Cooks
• Prep cooks (no fancy French here)

Then she ended by quickly and elegantly demonstrating basic knife skills: the julienne, the brunoise, the rondelle, chiffonade, batonet, bias and the dreaded mince. Each uniformly perfect. That’s essential.

I was in awe.

Then it was time to pair off and begin cooking.

The foursome on the right, the giggling gaggle of gourmands (a lot of alliteration from an anxious author writing agonizingly long anecdotes), immediately paired off and chose two “easy” recipes.

I was stuck with Mr. Forty-something.

He is nice. Lance (not gay) is about to retire from a 26-year career in the military (still not gay).

He and his wife want to open a restaurant much in the fashion of those he enjoyed while he was stationed for 12 years in Spain.

We were assigned the Cobb Salad. It’s a recipe which was created at the Brown Derby restaurant in L.A.  The Derby was a landmark restaurant made even more famous in the hilarious William Holden episode of I Love Lucy.

When I was in my twenties,the Los Feliz outpost of The Brown Derby became a nightclub. My friends would be more than happy to tell you about the one time I went there. I was accidentally so rude to actress Juliette Lewis that her entourage scurried her out the door. Oops.

Anywho…

The Cobb. So easy to order, so easy to eat… but a bi#%h to make.

Gently poached chicken, browned diced bacon, diced eggs which must be perfectly hard-boiled, diced avocado, tomato concasse (kon-kah-SAY) — which means blanched, peeled and roughly chopped, and 4 types of lettuce washed, spun and chopped. All topped with crumbled roquefort,  minced chives and a basic vinaigrette a la moutard. It’s an Atkins-lover’s dream.

It was a lot of work, and this is where I really began to get uncomfortable. It’s one thing to cook  in your home kitchen and serve up a meal that,  although not perfect, is still delicious. It is another to prep and cook and plate a dish with a teacher watching your every other move, and on top of that, partnered with someone else whose cooking style may be completely different. We were working  against the clock and knowing it was going to be critiqued at the end. It made me tense.

We did pretty well, though.

The bacon was the toughest part. It’s hard to uniformly dice raw bacon. But, I tried really, really hard. That is until Chef noted on my last slice, that uniformity is not THAT important in dicing bacon since it fries up into its own shape anyway.

Side note… great tip I learned from Layla the TA (definitely gay): drain the fat as you cook bacon. It caramelizes more quickly and evenly instead of boiling in its own fat.

After what seemed an eternity, but was really 71 minutes, it was time to plate up.

• 1 point off: I didn’t pre-chill the platter.
• 1 point off: The recipe called for a bed of lettuce with the toppings placed upon it in narrow strips… I chose to line them up in this order: egg, bacon (a natural pair), tomato, chicken, avocado, roquefort. I was instructed that tomato then bacon was a bad call. Red and brown next to each other draw the eye. It’s better to put something white – the chicken or egg in between. Grr.

But, as Lance poured on the dressing and tossed the salad to taste, I exalted “Mmmmm. Salty Fat!”

Chef laughed and praised, “We are going to love Jules!”

So, I guess, maybe it was a success.

I spent 35 minutes in front of the school, in the parking lot, with engine running.

Did I mention that I adopted a new dog? I picked him up that afternoon, and he was still “adjusting” to a new home, new dog and kids.

So basically, it was, “Hey Mom here’s this stray and my three kids and my high-strung poodle. There’s a lasagna in the oven. Bye.”

Nice.

I sat in my car thinking about how selfish I am to do this, and how tired I am. I was silently repeating my new mantra: ” Please God, don’t make me meet new friends.”

Let’s face it. I’m 33, I already have the coolest friends, and I’m too busy to make new ones. I’ve made two major moves in three years. If I have to tell “my story” to one more person, I think I might move again.

But, I decided to persevere. I gingerly grabbed one Listerine breath strip and tucked it in my mouth. (I remember my friend Tim noting  how awful it is to accidentally slide six breath strips instead of one from the container, and stick them on your tongue, only to helplessly stand there in agony as the inside of your mouth disintegrates.) Then I gently sprayed Tiffany perfume on me.

All of this was in a futile attempt to mask the odor of the Hebrew National 97% Reduced Fat Hot Dog I ate on the Low Cal bun. And the slice of Kraft 2% American cheese that I had draped over the limp and oddly-colored dog. Definitely a dinner worthy of an aspiring chef. Don’t you think?

I marched into class, confidently pulled out my latest and greatest Visa and spent the money I was going to use for new windows on the tuition instead.  I walked into the class and surveyed the scene.

On the right side of the room,  four lovely women were taking their seats.  They introduced themselves to each other,  instantly engaged in charming stories of self-disclosure and were genuinely giddy.

I chose the seat on the far left side of the room.

Three seats down sat a man in his mid-forties. My only thought being, “He’ll never talk to me.”

Plus we all know what  the first day of any class is like. The teacher introduces him/herself and writes their name on the board.  Then he immediately turns to the closest person on the right side of the room and says, “Okay. I’ve told you something about myself. Now I want to hear from you. Ummm. Let’s start with you, Juan-Miguel. Tell us a little bit about yourself and why you are interested in the Feminist Interpretations of Elizabethan Art.”

So anyway, the teacher (whom everyone seems to be calling “Chef”) walked in. She was a petite woman, but carried herself with tremendous authority. She definitely had a do-not-mess-with-me attitude, but a soft buttery voice. She began her lecture as three TA’s busily buzzed around in their chef’s coats prepping and chopping.

They were getting everything  “mise en place”  [MEEZ ahn plahs]. This is the culinary term for  having all the ingredients necessary for a dish prepared and ready to combine– up to the point of cooking. And apparently it’s super important.

Chef explained that she was trained at a very high-end restaurant in L.A. after obtaining a B.S. in Food Science, and she is still good friends with Wolfgang Puck (like, who isn’t in this town). She’s now a 26-year veteran of the food industry.

We are lucky, she added. Our class (of six) is very small against the average size of 15-20. The good news is that we will have the opportunity to be more hands-on. The bad news is that we will be much more hands-on.

Then she ended that lovely introduction and said, “So that’s enough about me. Tell me about who you are, your experience in the food industry and your aspirations in the food industry. Let’s start with…ummm. Jules! Tell us.”

What?!?! Can’t she see that I’m on the left side of the room?! She’s not supposed to start with me! I’m not prepared at all.

“Well, uh, I’ve spent the last seven to ten years raising my children and I am, uh, beginning to prepare myself for re-entry into the working world. Cooking is my hobby and a true passion, so I want to enter into the food industry in some capacity, but I’m not sure how. (At this point I’m completely babbling.)  My background is in journalism, so I’m thinking I might even be interested in doing some food writing.” (I am?)

“Oh! Who are your favorite food writers?” she asked excitedly.

Like a deer in headlights I stared blankly back at her. Now she’s asking follow-up questions? Geez! The only food writer that I could think of on the spot was M.F.K. Fisher. What a cop out!  That’s like telling your professor that your favorite American novelist of the 20th century is F. Scott Fitzgerald. It’s too easy!

“Uhhh. I read Bon Appetit,” I replied lamely.

Chef obviously sensed my pain and tried to help.

“Do you read Jeffrey Steingartner?”

“Uhhh. The name rings a bell.” I replied meekly.

“Oh, of course there is Ruth Reichl,” she replied.

Oh Yeah. Ruth Reichl. She’s the editor of Gourmet or something. Isn’t she the woman that my friend Ellen dumped won ton soup all over,  in an informational interview her dad had arranged?

Those were the only thoughts dancing on my brain.

Chef looked blankly at me looking blankly at her. “Well, you at least know of M.F.K. Fisher? Right?”

It was going to be a long night.

Tomorrow is day one at cooking school.

My approach-avoidance was so severe that after three months of reminding my mother that she would be watching the kids on Wednesdays so I could attend class, I had not applied, gone to orientation, nor enrolled.

I was lying on the couch paralyzed while my mom chirped into the phone, “Well, am I coming on Wednesday or not?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?”  (Always a difficult question to answer when your mom’s a shrink.)

“I’ll call you back.”  Click. Brief pause.

“JOOOOOOOOOOOOOE?!!!”

Joe shuffled to the den begrudgingly. “What?”

“Please call the cooking school. Please. Please. Please?!?!?!” I couldn’t make the call myself.

“Gimme the number,” he said with an almost audible roll of the eyes.

The  Wednesday class was full, but he enrolled me in the Monday night class. Mom was sure to be annoyed. 6-10pm on Monday nights with three kids, and Joe’s at MBA class that night?  When will she have time to drink?

“Mom’s going to hate that.”

“Hello, Ali? The Wednesday class is full. She’s enrolled Monday nights. It starts tomorrow. Is that doable? Yeah. I’ve got class. Uh-huh. Mmmm. I know. Okay. Cool. Thanks. Why me? She’s having approach-avoidance. Yeah. Ha ha ha. Yeah, I know. Thanks. Bye”

I was in.