Add Spice to Taste (2 page)

I wa
nted to ask Sasha what they had talked about. Was Julianna happy with the class so far or was she disappointed? There were always grumblers about the classes and I’d learned to brush those people off a while back, but for some reason, it was really important to me that Julianna liked my class. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t like anything was going to happen. When it came to women, I just sucked. At the seasoned age of thirty-six, I still had not figured it all out.

My
curiosity was growing, but so was my paranoia, as well as my fear that any questions at all would put a big sign across my forehead that said “SMITTEN.” I chose to avoid the subject altogether. I hurried past Sasha, ran up to the classroom, got the paper I needed, and hurried back down. Sasha looked up at me both times, looking as if she wanted to say something. Fortunately, I was back in my office before she could.

I stared at the computer screen
for a while, but nothing registered. This was an interesting turn of events, to feel a little crushed out on someone I’d just met. A student, no less. I tried to concentrate but it was impossible. The words on the screen became meaningless squiggles and shapes, but in it all, Julianna’s face shined through.

According to the clock
on my computer screen, lunch was over, so I headed back to the classroom. That was good. Cooking helped clear my head.

When everyone had settled down into their seats, I stood in front of my demo station and put my hand on the basket of fresh lemons sitting on the counter. “
Okay, I know some of you don’t have much experience in the kitchen. So, here’s a really tough question. Does anyone know what these are?” I asked in a droll tone. And like good little boys and girls in elementary school, they all called out, “Lemons!”

“Right! Gold stars for everyone. And does anyone know what we’re going to do with these lemons?”

“Cut them up,” a woman in the back said.

“Squeeze them
!” an older man suggested gleefully.

“Good guesses, but not quite,” I said. “We’re going to preserve them.”

A few “
aahhhhs
” sounded before I continued. Now I’d fully captured their imagination. If a student is not completely excited when they first start the class, they’re fully taken in by the second half of the day.

“Preserved lemons are a staple
ingredient in Moroccan cuisine.” I picked one up and held it aloft. “I’m going to show you how to do that. Now, we won’t be able to use the ones we start today because they have to sit for a couple of weeks. I’ll be sending you home with the ones you start now and I have some others that are ready to use today and over the next few days.”

“What are they preserved in?” asked Margaret.

“Salt, and we’re going to use kosher salt. These lemons add amazing flavor to any dish they’re added to.” I pushed the fruit aside. “And then we’re going to go on to the other items on our menu—spiced olives, orange-radish salad, and roasted red pepper salad. We’re going to make spinach, using some of the preserved lemons, and we’ll end with stuffed dates.”

I
divvied up different tasks to various students for the recipes, and they set about their assignments. I gave Julianna the job of supreming oranges, which gave me the opportunity to go and talk to her directly for a couple of minutes.

I picked up one of the oranges from the bowl she’d taken from the supply table. To my surprise, my hand was
trembling slightly.

“Okay,
” I said, hoping my voice didn’t falter. “Here’s how you supreme an orange.” I held the orange down on the cutting board.

“It’s not su—
PREEM?” she asked playfully.

“No. It’s su—
PREHM. It’s French.” I tried to appear serious.

I looked up to find her face only inches from mine and she was looking directly into my eyes.
Hers were a soft brown, like chinchilla, flecked with yellow, and so enchanting against her dark hair. My chest fluttered and I prayed I wouldn’t embarrass myself. “You hold—” My voice cracked, so I cleared it. “You hold the orange like this and slice off each end.”

Turning the orange upright onto a now—
flat end, I peered out of the corners of my eyes to see if she was still looking at me. Yup, she was. She must have sensed that I was watching her watching me because she dropped her eyes to the orange.

“Then you cut off the rind like this.” I demonstrated, turning the orange
a few degrees after each cut. “Make sure you get the pith—the white stuff—because that’s where the orange’s bitterness is. And it doesn’t look pretty.”

Then
I up picked the peeled orange and held it in the palm of my hand, juices covering my fingers.

“You’re dripping.”

“What?”

“You’re dripping. Juice.” She pointed to the orange.

Oh, that. Yeah. I moved my hand over the bowl. “Yeah, you want to catch those juices. We’ll need that for the dressing. So here’s what you do.”

With the edge of her knife, I sliced through each segment
, separated it from the membrane, and dropped it in the bowl. When all the segments were out, I squeezed the membranes over the bowl to extract any remaining juices, then dropped the carcass into the garbage bowl.

“Okay, no
w you.” I placed the knife down on the board so that she could safely pick it up.

I watched as she mimicked what I had
done. After deftly peeling it, her orange was beautifully pith-less. With the fruit in the palm of her hand, she carefully ran the blade on either side of each section, and dropped the segments into the bowl. As I had done, she squeezed the membranes, letting the juices fall into the bowl.

“Nice job,” I said.

The mark of pride in students’ eyes when they’ve done a good job was always rewarding, but in Julianna’s eyes, it was inspiring.

“You get a gold star,” I said,
handing her one of her towels, which she’d put next to the cutting board.

“Thanks.” She took the towel from me and brushed my palm. Could electricity actually
flow between human beings? It was like a joy buzzer had shocked me, except that the sensation didn’t stop in my hand. The current travelled into my body and down to my lower regions.

“Okay, we
ll, carry on.” All flushed, I stepped away from her. I hoped that no one had picked up on whatever it was that had just passed between us. The only one who seemed to notice was Brit, who looked amused.

I
tried to focus on the rest of the students. Throughout the afternoon, they performed their tasks quietly, though a few chatted back and forth about what they were working on and peered at each other’s work.

You’d never know that at the end, there would be tantalizing food on the table. It was like taking a drug and seeing the world in exaggerated Technicolor. The speckles of red pepper flakes on the glistening olives were like little jewels, facets around larger stones. The orange-radish salad was a mosaic of citrus flesh and thin white disks ringed by splashes of crimson. And the preserved lemons that the students had
prepared were a hyperbole of yellow—sunshine under glass. The communal meal was uncomplicated but far from dull or ordinary.

This was evident in the excited
aspects of the students’ faces. As was usually the case, they were timid at first, overly polite in taking food, and unsure of each other. But once they took their portions, they delighted in the flavors and textures: Crunchy, soft, tangy, peppery, chewy, salty, sweet. Afterwards, they eagerly began packing up leftovers in the tin plates stacked on the supply table.

“
Mmm, this is delicious,” Julianna commented as she bit into a date. She had grabbed one and approached me. “I can’t wait to make these at home. The people in my yoga class would die for them.”

“Does it make you want to come back for the next round?”

“Definitely,” Julianna said, licking the tips of her sugary fingers in a way that made my knees weak.

“Great. Then I’ll see you
tomorrow.” She walked back to her table. To the rest of the class, I said, “Let’s get cleaned up, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget your info packets. And your lemons. Remember, let them sit a couple of weeks.”

Most of
the students removed their aprons and towels, gathered their things, and filed out. My assistants collected the cutting boards, knives, bowls, and anything else that had been left on the tables. I tidied up my own workstation, engrossed in getting the room ready for the night class Anything that needed to be washed, I put in the sink, and I washed my personal knives in the secondary sink.

The room had become quieter, except for the dishwashers furiously scrubbing all the pots and pans.
When I turned around, Julianna was still sitting at the table, flipping through the illustrated pages of the knife techniques packet.

She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back,
a nervous flutter in my chest. Geez, it was like being a teenager again.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a question,” she said, her eyes bright and playful.

“Sure,” I replied. Or at least I thought I replied. It sort of came out as a croak, but she seemed to understand.

“I was wondering what it’s like being a chef. A woman chef. I mean, it’s been a pretty male-dominated field, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is traditionally that. But I can’t imagine doing anything else. And it’s a lot easier now than it used to be. Like most professions, I guess.”

She
looked thoughtful and held my gaze for a really long moment. I waited for her next question, but she didn’t have one. “Thanks,” she said. “I really enjoyed today’s class. I can’t wait for tomorrow.” She stood and gathered her things.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. See you tomorrow,” I said, waving
like a moron.

“Bye.”

As she walked out, I couldn’t help but notice, again, her perfect ass filling out her shorts and her solid, muscular shoulders in her tank top. She obviously took care of herself, to great success.

When she had turned the corner, the bathroom door, just a few steps down the hall, swung open. Brit stepped out, and as she passed the doorway of the classroom, she
smiled and waved at me, her fingers wiggling in a to-do-loo gesture. There was something about that smile—beautiful but dangerous.

This was going to be an interesting class.

Boxes still cluttered
up the hall of my apartment, on their way out the door to be taken to my ex-girlfriend’s new place. I kicked one as I passed it and threw myself onto the sofa. At least I wasn’t the one who’d had to move after the breakup. Over the years, I had seen the building of my East Village apartment go from shabby to chic as the area became the new hotspot for artists and yuppies. The only reason I could still afford it was because it had once been my aunt’s and I’d been grandfathered into a rent control deal years before.

So typical of Brenda. Leaves some of her shit in my apartment for a year and a half, finally says she’s going to come get it, then doesn’t. “I’ll come next week,” she’d said
the last time. That was three weeks ago.

My phone rang. I looked at it and debated picking up. Speak of the Devil.
Brenda.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Jo. How are you?”

“When are you coming for your shit?”

“Well, aren’t you in a mood.”

“Look, I pulled all your boxes out, like you asked, and now they’re sitting here for three weeks.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. That’s why I’m calling. Can I come by tonight?”

“A little notice would’ve been nice.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s been a hectic month. But an appointment got cancelled, so I thought it would be a good time to come over.”

“Fine. Come now
, if you want.” The sooner I had that crap out of my sight, the better. “And
bring your key
.” I emphasized that part to let her know that I was annoyed that she had not yet handed over her key to the apartment.

“Okay. See you in a few.”

I sighed and stared at the ceiling. Maybe I should have been more forgiving. After all, it was probably my fault that she’d left. All those hours I’d spent at the cafe, trying to make a go of it, had been rough on her and by the time I closed the café and began teaching—a much more predictable job—we were already doomed. Things only got worse over the course of the next couple of years. Ironically, once I started teaching and had more time to spend with her, the less she wanted to spend with me.

I went to the refrigerator
and opened it, staring. Ah, there was still a little bit of the Riesling left from the other night. With the bottle up-ended over my glass, the last drops of the semi-dry white wine dribbled out. My stomach grumbled but I just didn’t have the wherewithal to fix myself some dinner. Although physically hungry, I had no appetite.

Nothing seemed to be going right for me—alone for
going on two years, and still paying for a degree that wasn’t serving me in quite the way I’d hoped. I enjoyed teaching, but it just didn’t pay enough. I was barely making ends meet. And I was still living with the belongings of a woman who no longer loved me.