last wall is one big sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, with a professional-grade barbecue (no surprises there), a gazebo, and a garden. The parties they throw here must be epic.
“Nice place,” I say.
Claire curls a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Both my parents are chefs, so they designed the kitchen themselves.”
“Your mom cooks too?”
“Yeah, she’s a pastry chef.”
“Wow. I bet Thanksgiving is amazing.” On Thanksgiving at my house, Mom buys the Festive Special at the Chicken Palace. She puts it in the fridge to reheat for dinner the next day, when the restaurant closes for the holiday.
“You want a drink? Lemonade, orange juice, soda, water . . . ?”
I tell her OJ would be great before realizing my blunder. It’s high in carbs, at least twenty-five grams. I might as well have asked for two heaping tablespoons of sugar. I tell myself to shut it and to take the cute girl’s offer.
Claire opens the stainless-steel fridge door and removesa mesh bag packed with oranges. When she snags a knife from the drawer, I realize she’s making me real orange juice and not pouring the kind from a carton or frozen concentrate.
“You don’t have to go to all that trouble,” I say. “Water’s good.”
“I don’t mind.” She slices a couple of oranges in half and places one part into this old-fashioned, two-foot-tall, silver gadget-press-thingy sitting on the counter. She rises onto tiptoes to reach for its handle and pulls down, using all her weight. The machine crushes the orange, and juice trickles from the spout and into a glass.
“Want some help?”
“Sure.” She removes the empty rind and replaces it with a fresh half, and steps aside so I can get in next to her. I grip the handle and pull down to press. More juice trickles out. When I’m done Claire replaces the old half with a new one. It’s not long before we move as a team, creating a smooth rhythm with no pauses: I squeeze and lift, she replaces, and we repeat. Halfway through filling the second glass, Claire tilts her head and smiles, causing a breath to hitch in my throat. My instinct is to say something funny, but my mind goes blank. When we’re finished she cleans up, and I carry our drinks to the marble island, and the glasses make a dense tonk as I set them down. There’s not much juice in each, about three swallows’ worth, but when I take a sip, Irealize why we didn’t make a lot. Fresh juice is so rich and sweet, you don’t need a giant glass of it.
Claire turns down the music, and we get started reviewing Mrs. A’s handouts, page by page. We read about the principles of food safety (like preventing salmonella), different cuts (slice, dice, julienne, et cetera), and various measurement tools.
The next time I glance at the stove’s digital clock, two hours have passed. I didn’t know there was this much to talk about when it came to food. Plus, with Claire teaching me, time just zipped by; she’s great at explaining stuff.
“Kevin?” she asks. “Can I say something if you promise not to get offended?”
“Um . . . sure?”
“Your knife skills? They’re horrendous.”
“Huh?” I say, realizing it sounded goofy. I might as well have said, “Ah-duh?”
“Can I show you how to properly hold a knife?”
I open my hands to my sides. “Sure, Coach. Whatever you want.”
Claire scrunches her face tight and barks, “Okay, drop and gimme twenty.” I make like I’ll do it, but when I don’t follow through, she crosses her arms and gives me this, “Excuse me, mister, I didn’t tell you to stop” look. So I give the lady what she wants. I go all the way down to the floor and present her with twenty of my finest. When I standagain, her gaze flashes from my chest to my eyes and lips, then down at the ground as a smile dances across her lips. A total checkout. I play it cool.
“Um,” she says, and tries to swallow. “Okay, sous-chef, pick out a knife that feels good in your hands.” She
“Nice place,” I say.
Claire curls a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Both my parents are chefs, so they designed the kitchen themselves.”
“Your mom cooks too?”
“Yeah, she’s a pastry chef.”
“Wow. I bet Thanksgiving is amazing.” On Thanksgiving at my house, Mom buys the Festive Special at the Chicken Palace. She puts it in the fridge to reheat for dinner the next day, when the restaurant closes for the holiday.
“You want a drink? Lemonade, orange juice, soda, water . . . ?”
I tell her OJ would be great before realizing my blunder. It’s high in carbs, at least twenty-five grams. I might as well have asked for two heaping tablespoons of sugar. I tell myself to shut it and to take the cute girl’s offer.
Claire opens the stainless-steel fridge door and removesa mesh bag packed with oranges. When she snags a knife from the drawer, I realize she’s making me real orange juice and not pouring the kind from a carton or frozen concentrate.
“You don’t have to go to all that trouble,” I say. “Water’s good.”
“I don’t mind.” She slices a couple of oranges in half and places one part into this old-fashioned, two-foot-tall, silver gadget-press-thingy sitting on the counter. She rises onto tiptoes to reach for its handle and pulls down, using all her weight. The machine crushes the orange, and juice trickles from the spout and into a glass.
“Want some help?”
“Sure.” She removes the empty rind and replaces it with a fresh half, and steps aside so I can get in next to her. I grip the handle and pull down to press. More juice trickles out. When I’m done Claire replaces the old half with a new one. It’s not long before we move as a team, creating a smooth rhythm with no pauses: I squeeze and lift, she replaces, and we repeat. Halfway through filling the second glass, Claire tilts her head and smiles, causing a breath to hitch in my throat. My instinct is to say something funny, but my mind goes blank. When we’re finished she cleans up, and I carry our drinks to the marble island, and the glasses make a dense tonk as I set them down. There’s not much juice in each, about three swallows’ worth, but when I take a sip, Irealize why we didn’t make a lot. Fresh juice is so rich and sweet, you don’t need a giant glass of it.
Claire turns down the music, and we get started reviewing Mrs. A’s handouts, page by page. We read about the principles of food safety (like preventing salmonella), different cuts (slice, dice, julienne, et cetera), and various measurement tools.
The next time I glance at the stove’s digital clock, two hours have passed. I didn’t know there was this much to talk about when it came to food. Plus, with Claire teaching me, time just zipped by; she’s great at explaining stuff.
“Kevin?” she asks. “Can I say something if you promise not to get offended?”
“Um . . . sure?”
“Your knife skills? They’re horrendous.”
“Huh?” I say, realizing it sounded goofy. I might as well have said, “Ah-duh?”
“Can I show you how to properly hold a knife?”
I open my hands to my sides. “Sure, Coach. Whatever you want.”
Claire scrunches her face tight and barks, “Okay, drop and gimme twenty.” I make like I’ll do it, but when I don’t follow through, she crosses her arms and gives me this, “Excuse me, mister, I didn’t tell you to stop” look. So I give the lady what she wants. I go all the way down to the floor and present her with twenty of my finest. When I standagain, her gaze flashes from my chest to my eyes and lips, then down at the ground as a smile dances across her lips. A total checkout. I play it cool.
“Um,” she says, and tries to swallow. “Okay, sous-chef, pick out a knife that feels good in your hands.” She
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