Kitchen Chaos

by Deborah A. Levine

  Next to Dr. Wong is someone I don’t recognize, and I notice for the first time that along with Frankie, Lillian, and their moms, there are four other people at the table: two men around my dad’s age and a couple who are definitely married (or at least boyfriend and girlfriend) because they’re holding hands and looking at each other in that same goofy, dreamy way Frankie stares at Mr. McEnroe. They’re all staring at us, of course, wondering what kind of people would bring a wailing baby to a grown-up cooking class.

  Chef Antonio squats down in front of Cole’s stroller, which is literally rocking and rolling thanks to my brother’s nonstop squirming. This is not exactly the first impression I was hoping to make. “And what’s your name, little man?” the chef asks him, smiling and holding out his hand as if Cole were a grown-up instead of a bratty toddler. Cole pushes his hand away and tries even harder to wriggle out of his stroller harness, and Chef Antonio stands back up. He’s still smiling, but I bet he wishes Cole would shut up already.

  My mom sighs and shoots me an “I told you so” look. She smiles apologetically at the others and turns to Chef Antonio. “I’m sorry,” she says, pushing Cole back into his seat and tightening the straps. “Our babysitter got sick. I’ll just walk him around the block a few times, and maybe he’ll take a nap. Please get started without me, and Liza will catch me up on what I’ve missed.”

  “Mom—,” I start to say, but before I have a chance to argue, she’s wheeled the stroller around and is pushing it out the door, Cole still whining his little head off.

  Chef Antonio puts his arm around my shoulder like we’re old friends and leads me toward the table where the rest of the class is waiting. “Not to worry, Liza,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice again. “Your mom will be back before you know it. Come, join your friends and meet some new ones!”

  Frankie runs up to us and grabs my hand, pulling me over to the table. “Finally!” she says. “I thought you were going to ditch us!”

  “Well,” I say, “it looks like my mom just might have.” Frankie’s mom gives me a little hug and looks after the closing door like she wishes she could make a run for it too.

  “No way,” Frankie says, bumping Lillian out of the way so I can squeeze in next to her at the table. “I’m sure Cole will chill out soon and she’ll be back in a few.”

  I step back so Lillian isn’t smushed between me and her mom, who’s looking around the room with her lips pursed like she’s a health inspector or the judge in an interior design competition. She’s also eyeing Theresa and the spot where my mom vanished, like she’s been tricked. “Nice to see you, Dr. Wong,” I say, attempting to smooth things out. “And sorry, Lillian, I didn’t mean to crash into you. Sometimes Frankie gets a little hyper.”

  “I do not!” says Frankie. But she knows she totally does. “Aren’t you going to sit next to me, Lize?” she asks, which is pretty rude considering that Lillian is already there.

  I give Lillian a “Don’t worry about her” look. “I think I should sit over there next to the empty seat and wait for my mom,” I tell Frankie. “You know, since I begged her to take the class and everything.” I start to walk off when it hits me, and I turn back to Frankie and Lillian. “Shouldn’t one of us be taking notes or something for our project?”

  Lillian smiles with a look in her eyes that reminds me of our old cat when he’d hidden a “present” for us under the doormat (trust me, you don’t want to know!). “I’ve got it covered,” she says, and pulls one of those tiny digital video recorders out of her pocket. “As soon as the chef starts talking, I start taping.”

  “Sweet!” I tell her, looking over at Frankie. Even she can’t help being impressed.

  I make my way over to the other side of the table, where Frankie’s mom and the two men are chatting it up. I pull up a chair between the empty seat and one of the men, who has skin even darker than my mom’s and a very carefully trimmed grayish beard. “Salt-and-pepper” is the way I’ve heard people describe hair like his. He smiles at me, and I like the way the corners of his eyes crinkle behind the dark green frames of his glasses.

  “Hi,” I say, holding out my hand like Chef Antonio did when he met us at the door. “I’m Liza.”

  “Well, hello,” the man says, shaking my hand. “I’m Henry, and this is Errol.” He gestures toward the friendly-looking, red-haired man next to him, who’s now talking to the lovebirds at the end of the table. “I’m supposed to be here with my mom,” I explain. “and not my little brother.”

  Henry shakes his head and laughs. “I have five little brothers, my dear. Been there, done that.”

  I smile for probably the first time since Cammy’s mom called this morning.

  “I see you’re here with your friends, though,” Henry says. “Friends are usually better than brothers.” He elbows Errol in the arm. “I’ve been friends with this guy since we were about your age.” I’m definitely liking Henry already.

  I don’t really meet Errol because he’s still talking to the guy and the girl (or woman, I guess), who I now notice are wearing shiny rings that look brand new. I decide to call them “the Newlyweds.” They laugh a lot and look really psyched just to be together. I try to picture my mom and dad looking that happy to be with each other, but I can’t. I have to go way back to remember a time when they weren’t fighting about something.

  While we’re all introducing ourselves, Chef Antonio sets something up at a counter along the wall, then comes back and stands at the head of the table, rubbing his hands together. My mom must have sensed that class was about to start, because here she comes now, shoving the door to the cooking studio open with her back and dragging the stroller in behind her. And guess what? Cole is still fussing and crying! Before he was born, I begged for a little brother or sister, but right now I seriously miss being an only child.

  Everyone stops talking and turns to look at Cole and my mom, who has clearly had it. “I’m very sorry,” she says, looking first at Chef Antonio and then at me, “but this just isn’t going to work. Maybe next time.”

  Huh? I slide off my chair and run to the door. “Wait, Mom, you’re going to miss the first class? But you signed up and everything. . . .” I sound as whiny as Cole.

  “I said I was sorry, honey, but look at your brother. And besides,” she says, gesturing to the staring crowd at the table, “your friends’ moms are here, you don’t really need me.”

  I give Cole a look that scares him so much he actually stops crying . . . for about five seconds. “But, Mom,” I whisper, trying not to sound like a toddler, “I do need you.”

  “I’ve got to get him out of here, Lize,” my mom says, like she didn’t even hear me. “We’ll be back to pick you up at three.” She wheels the stroller around and heads for the door, nearly crashing into two people who have chosen this exact moment to enter the studio.

  “Dónde está el fuego?” says a short woman with curly black hair and long, colorful earrings. I’ve taken only a month of Spanish so far, but even I know that means “Where’s the fire?” The woman places her hands on the stroller handles to avoid a collision, then looks up at my mom, who is clearly frazzled.

  “Oh my,” my mom says. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry.” Cole lets out a scream, and I wonder if Mom’s going to start crying too.

  The woman looks down at Cole, and a warm smile spreads across her face. Without saying anything to my mom, she bends over the stroller and starts unbuckling the harness. She doesn’t seem to notice how obnoxious Cole is acting—or how completely embarrassed my mom and I feel. Beneath her heavy, perfectly done makeup, her face is wrinkled but beautiful. Up close you can see the gray roots around the part in her hair. It’s impossible to know whether this woman is fifty or seventy, but you can tell she was supermodel gorgeous when she was younger.

  “Ay, chiquito,” the woman says, sliding Cole’s arms out of the straps and lifting him out of the stroller in a gentle but sure way that tells me she’s done this loads of times before. “Qué pas
a, papi?” she asks Cole, bouncing him a little bit and tickling his neck.

  Whoever she is, this lady is clearly a baby whisperer, because my brother immediately cuts out the Terrible Two-ness and magically transforms into the happy, giggly Cole who attracts people in grocery stores like he is a free sample. “Yummy,” they always say when they see his chubby cheeks. The two of them dance off toward a corner of the kitchen where there’s a smaller table and a couple of chairs. Whoa, I’m impressed.

  Left standing at the door facing Cole’s empty stroller and my mom is a boy who looks around my age. He’s carrying a backpack and wearing earphones that connect to a phone in his hand.

  Chef Antonio appears and takes the stroller from my mom with one hand and yanks the headphones from the boy’s ears with the other. Motioning to me, he leads us over to the corner where the baby whisperer is still tangoing with my brother. “Jackie, Liza, meet mi mamacita, my mother,” he says, putting his arm around the shoulders of the woman holding Cole.

  “Call me Angelica,” she says in a thick accent, pronouncing the g like an h. I’d believe it if she told us she really is an angel, the way she’s charmed Cole, who doesn’t even seem to notice my mom or me.

  The boy plunks his backpack down on one of the little tables and slumps down into a chair. He starts pushing buttons on his phone until Chef Antonio reaches down and grabs it. He puts the phone in his chef’s apron pocket and rests his hand on the boy’s head. “And this bundle of energy is my son, Javier,” he says. “Javier, say hello to our new students.”

  Javier forces a smile and gives us a quick wave. Chef Antonio tugs at one of his curls, and Javier pushes his hand away. “Quit it, Papi!” he says.

  Chef Antonio pats the pocket that holds Javier’s phone. “Start doing your homework and you can have this back after class.”

  Javier sighs and reaches for his backpack as my mom reaches out to take Cole from Angelica. “Thank you so much,” she says. “I’ll take him now.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Chef Antonio’s mother says, waving us off toward the big table, where the rest of the class is sitting, staring at us. I notice that she wears big silver rings on almost all of her fingers and her long nails are painted a deep red that matches her lipstick exactly. “Go on, enjoy yourselves, chicas. Mi amigo and I will be just fine.” She dips Cole like they’re a team on Dancing with the Stars, and he lets out a sparkly laugh.

  My mother and I look at each other and shrug. I’d rather Cole was at home with Cammy so I could have Mom all to myself, but if Angelica can keep him under her spell for the rest of the class, I’ll take it. My mom takes one last look at Cole and then turns back to me and smiles. We take our seats next to Henry and Errol.

  Chef Antonio stands at the head of the table in front of a cutting board and the fancy case where he keeps his knives (I think it’s the same one he uses on TV!). “Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, “Señoras y señores. Welcome to Antonio’s Kitchen, where fresh is best and a little spice is oh-so-nice.”

  That’s exactly what he says at the beginning of every show, and we all burst into applause after he says it, as if we were in the studio audience.

  Chef Antonio laughs. “Por favor, mis amigos,” he says, looking around the table at each of us, “no need for applause. We’re going to be together for six weeks. If you give me an ovation after everything I say, we won’t have time for cooking—or, more importantly, eating!”

  Everyone laughs, except for Dr. Wong, who’s giving Chef Antonio the same narrow-eyed look she gave the rest of the room. I glance at Lillian to see if she notices, but she’s got her camera out and is too busy recording the chef’s every word to pay attention to her mother. She looks happy just to be here and to have convinced her mom to come along. Suddenly, I realize that I feel exactly the same way, and I exhale the breath it feels like I’ve been holding since we walked into the studio with Cole screaming bloody murder. Maybe my big idea wasn’t so dumb after all. Who knows? So far the If you can dream it, you can achieve it poster hasn’t steered me wrong.

  CHAPTER 14

  Frankie

  “We’re going to begin our adventures in American cooking with this,” Chef Antonio announces, brandishing an unpeeled ear of corn. “Corn, or maize, is actually indigenous to the Americas and was introduced to the European explorers by the native populations.”

  Now that I’m actually here in the room with him, I totally get what Liza sees in Chef Antonio. His skin is the color of the caramel swirl in dulce de leche ice cream, and he has a way of looking at you with those big dark eyes that makes your insides start to melt. He’s no Mr. Mac, but with that accent, he makes even words like “indigenous” and “native populations” sound sexy.

  “The Europeans brought corn back to their own countries,” Chef continues, “and it spread from there. It did not take long for this hardy crop to become a staple of cuisines around the world.”

  Across from me, I see Dr. Wong turn the video camera Lillian’s holding so it’s facing her. “Corn has been part of the Chinese diet since the fourteenth century,” she whispers loudly into the camera.

  “Mama!” Lillian shout-whispers back. She rolls her eyes and points the camera at Chef Antonio again.

  “That,” Dr. Wong sniffs, “could be important information for your project.”

  I hold back a snort. All three of us taking this class with our moms might turn out to be more entertaining than I expected. Actually, I’m sure there are a few other adjectives I could come up with to describe my mom’s behavior since we arrived.

  The very first thing she did when we walked through the door was tell Chef Antonio that her cooking skills are “underappreciated” by her family. As if she has any skills for us to appreciate—under or not! Then I heard her sharing some jewels from the family collection of “Mom in the Kitchen” tales. She does that when she meets people; she becomes super confessional to win them over, to get them on her side. I know the theory—poke fun at yourself first, then other people won’t need to—but it drives me nuts. Chef winked at me, so I’m thinking he’s probably been through this before. Hopefully he can work some magic on my mom’s cooking the way his mother cast her spell on Liza’s little brother, Cole.

  “Before we get started on our first recipe,” Chef tells us, “I want each of you to get up close and personal with today’s main ingredient. We have a nice, even group of ten in our class, which means we’re going to be working in pairs. In front of each pair you’ll see one of these.” He holds up a small marble bowl and cylinder. “Does anyone know what we call this tool?”

  “A mortar and pestle,” Lillian’s mom answers in a flash. “Used for grinding herbs and spices.” She looks proud of herself, as if we’re having a contest to see who can answer first. And Liza thinks I’m competitive!

  “In our house those things are considered weapons,” my mom says. “We have a set, but my husband has to hide it so my boys don’t grind anyone’s fingers into paste.” Oh, man. Now she’s starting in on the “Crazy Caputos” stories?

  Everyone chuckles, except Dr. Wong, who clearly wanted to get credit for her correct answer. It’s weird, but I’ve been in situations where I’ve felt exactly the same way.

  “Well, class,” Chef Antonio says, “today we’re going to use this dangerous weapon—one of the oldest cooking tools historians have recorded—to create cornmeal, which is the base for many different dishes in cultures from around the world. Actually, it was first used to feed cattle, but then folks realized, ‘Hey, this stuff is too good.’ ”

  Chef shows us the prep table, where all sorts of ingredients are laid out in dishes and bowls, and tells us to fill a tiny glass bowl with dried corn kernels and bring it back to our partners. Liza and I dip our tiny bowls into the kernels at the same time, scooping up any old amount, but Dr. Wong makes Lillian do it in this very careful, precise way, even though we’re not actually measuring anything. Lillian looks so embarrassed that I almost feel sorry for her—until I rem
ember that she’s totally intruding on my friendship with Liza.

  As the chef demonstrates, I try to watch the way he grinds the kernels in a neat, even—what Mr. McEnroe would call “fluid”—way. He says, “No need for rat-a-tat-tat movements. See? Nice and easy. . . .”

  Back at the table with my mom, I pour our dried corn into the marble bowl. “Do you want to go first?” I ask.

  “Why not?” my mom says. “I can’t burn them, right?”

  “Right,” I say, trying to sound positive, even though overcooking is just one of the many ways my mom regularly inflicts damage in the kitchen.

  I look around, and everyone is getting into the rhythm of grinding their corn, cool as cucumbers. And then there’s my mom, pounding away at our kernels, bits and pieces flying everywhere except in the bowl. I wish I’d worn safety goggles.

  Mom finishes “grinding” and looks up from our pathetic mess. She glances around at everyone else pretending not to notice. “Oops,” she says, a little too cheerfully.

  Chef Antonio comes around to our side of the table and puts one hand on my mom’s shoulder and the other on mine. I make eye contact with Liza, who makes goo-goo eyes and mouths the word “lucky.”

  “Ay, ay, ay, ladies,” Chef says, eyeing my mom’s latest disaster, “what happened over here?”

  My mom sweeps as much of the corn shrapnel as she can into her hand and dumps it into the mortar. “I’m not sure,” she says, “but I’ll definitely get the hang of it next time.”

  Chef laughs warmly and gives my mom a supportive pat on the shoulder. “Fortunately for you, Theresa, that was just a little project to give you all a sense of the process for turning corn into cornmeal, which can then be transformed into almost anything. Our first recipe starts with a combination of cornmeal and water, which in many places is eaten just like that and referred to as ‘cereal’ or ‘porridge’ or—my favorite—‘mush.’ ”