The Undomestic Goddess
Page 52
“Oh, a chicken!” I exclaim before I can stop myself.
“Yes, a chicken.” I can see Iris looking at me with wry amusement. “Never seen a chicken before?”
Only in the supermarket chill counter. The chicken comes pecking toward my open-toe-sandaled feet and I quickly tuck them under my chair, trying to look as though I meant to do that anyway.
“There.” Iris picks up the dough, shapes it efficiently into a round shape on a tray, opens the heavy oven door, and pops it in. She washes her floury hands at the sink, then turns to face me.
“So. You want to learn how to cook.” Her tone is friendly but businesslike. I sense this is a woman who doesn’t waste words.
“Yes.” I smile. “Please.”
“Cordon Bleu fancy stuff,” chimes in Nathaniel, who’s leaning against the range.
“And how much cooking have you done before?” Iris dries her hands on a red-checked towel. “Nathaniel said none. That can’t be right.” She folds the towel and smiles at me for the first time. “What can you make? What are your basics?”
Her intent blue gaze is making me feel a little nervous. I rack my brains, trying to think of something I can make.
“Well … I can … I can make … um … toast,” I say. “Toast would be my basic.”
“Toast?” She looks taken aback. “Just toast?”
“And crumpets,” I add quickly. “Tea cakes … anything that goes in a toaster, really.”
“But what about cooking?” She drapes the towel over a steel bar on the range and looks at me more carefully. “What about … an omelet? Surely you can cook an omelet.”
I swallow. “Not really.”
Iris’s expression is so incredulous I feel my cheeks flame. “I never really did home economics at school,” I explain. “I never really learned how to make meals.”
“But your mother, surely … or your grandmother—” She breaks off as I shake my head. “Anyone?”
I bite my lip. Iris exhales sharply as though taking in the situation for the first time.
“So you can’t cook anything at all. And what have you promised to make for the Geigers?”
Oh, God.
“Trish wanted a week’s worth of menus. So I … um … gave her one based on this.” Sheepishly, I get the crumpled Maxim’s menu out of my bag and hand it to her.
“Braised lamb and baby onion assemblé with a fondant potato and goat’s cheese crust, accompanied by cardamom spinach puree,” she reads out, in tones of disbelief.
I hear a snort and look up to see Nathaniel in fits of laughter.
“It was all I had!” I exclaim defensively. “What was I going to say, fish fingers and chips?”
“Assemblé is just flannel.” Iris is still perusing the sheet. “That’s souped-up shepherd’s pie. We can teach you that. And the braised trout with almonds is straightforward enough.…” She runs her finger further down the page, then at last looks up, frowning. “I can teach you these dishes, Samantha. But it isn’t going to be easy. If you’ve really never cooked before.” She glances at Nathaniel. “I’m really not sure …”
I feel a flicker of alarm. Please don’t say she’s going to back out.
“I’m a quick learner.” I lean forward. “And I’ll work hard. I really, really want to do this.”
Please. I need this.
“All right,” says Iris at last. “Let’s get you cooking.”
She reaches into a cupboard for a set of weighing scales, and I take the opportunity to reach into my bag for a pad of paper and a pen.
“What’s that for?” She raises her chin toward the paper.
“So I can take notes,” I explain. I write down the date and Cooking lesson no. 1, underline it, then stand at the ready. Iris is slowly shaking her head.
“Samantha, cooking isn’t about writing down. It’s about tasting. Feeling. Touching. Smelling.”
“Right.” I nod.
I must remember that. I quickly uncap my pen and scribble down Cooking = all about tasting, smelling, feeling, etc. I cap my pen again, only to see Iris regarding me with incredulity.
“Tasting,” she says, removing my pen and paper from my hands. “Not writing. You need to use your senses. Your instincts.”
She lifts the lid off a pot gently steaming on the cooker and dips a spoon into it. “Taste this.”
Gingerly I take the spoon in my mouth. “Gravy,” I say at once. “Delicious!” I add politely. Iris shakes her head.
“Yes, a chicken.” I can see Iris looking at me with wry amusement. “Never seen a chicken before?”
Only in the supermarket chill counter. The chicken comes pecking toward my open-toe-sandaled feet and I quickly tuck them under my chair, trying to look as though I meant to do that anyway.
“There.” Iris picks up the dough, shapes it efficiently into a round shape on a tray, opens the heavy oven door, and pops it in. She washes her floury hands at the sink, then turns to face me.
“So. You want to learn how to cook.” Her tone is friendly but businesslike. I sense this is a woman who doesn’t waste words.
“Yes.” I smile. “Please.”
“Cordon Bleu fancy stuff,” chimes in Nathaniel, who’s leaning against the range.
“And how much cooking have you done before?” Iris dries her hands on a red-checked towel. “Nathaniel said none. That can’t be right.” She folds the towel and smiles at me for the first time. “What can you make? What are your basics?”
Her intent blue gaze is making me feel a little nervous. I rack my brains, trying to think of something I can make.
“Well … I can … I can make … um … toast,” I say. “Toast would be my basic.”
“Toast?” She looks taken aback. “Just toast?”
“And crumpets,” I add quickly. “Tea cakes … anything that goes in a toaster, really.”
“But what about cooking?” She drapes the towel over a steel bar on the range and looks at me more carefully. “What about … an omelet? Surely you can cook an omelet.”
I swallow. “Not really.”
Iris’s expression is so incredulous I feel my cheeks flame. “I never really did home economics at school,” I explain. “I never really learned how to make meals.”
“But your mother, surely … or your grandmother—” She breaks off as I shake my head. “Anyone?”
I bite my lip. Iris exhales sharply as though taking in the situation for the first time.
“So you can’t cook anything at all. And what have you promised to make for the Geigers?”
Oh, God.
“Trish wanted a week’s worth of menus. So I … um … gave her one based on this.” Sheepishly, I get the crumpled Maxim’s menu out of my bag and hand it to her.
“Braised lamb and baby onion assemblé with a fondant potato and goat’s cheese crust, accompanied by cardamom spinach puree,” she reads out, in tones of disbelief.
I hear a snort and look up to see Nathaniel in fits of laughter.
“It was all I had!” I exclaim defensively. “What was I going to say, fish fingers and chips?”
“Assemblé is just flannel.” Iris is still perusing the sheet. “That’s souped-up shepherd’s pie. We can teach you that. And the braised trout with almonds is straightforward enough.…” She runs her finger further down the page, then at last looks up, frowning. “I can teach you these dishes, Samantha. But it isn’t going to be easy. If you’ve really never cooked before.” She glances at Nathaniel. “I’m really not sure …”
I feel a flicker of alarm. Please don’t say she’s going to back out.
“I’m a quick learner.” I lean forward. “And I’ll work hard. I really, really want to do this.”
Please. I need this.
“All right,” says Iris at last. “Let’s get you cooking.”
She reaches into a cupboard for a set of weighing scales, and I take the opportunity to reach into my bag for a pad of paper and a pen.
“What’s that for?” She raises her chin toward the paper.
“So I can take notes,” I explain. I write down the date and Cooking lesson no. 1, underline it, then stand at the ready. Iris is slowly shaking her head.
“Samantha, cooking isn’t about writing down. It’s about tasting. Feeling. Touching. Smelling.”
“Right.” I nod.
I must remember that. I quickly uncap my pen and scribble down Cooking = all about tasting, smelling, feeling, etc. I cap my pen again, only to see Iris regarding me with incredulity.
“Tasting,” she says, removing my pen and paper from my hands. “Not writing. You need to use your senses. Your instincts.”
She lifts the lid off a pot gently steaming on the cooker and dips a spoon into it. “Taste this.”
Gingerly I take the spoon in my mouth. “Gravy,” I say at once. “Delicious!” I add politely. Iris shakes her head.
