flour . . .â Chef Antonio looks around to see if weâre all still paying attention. Most of the adults are, but Javier and Tristan both look pretty bored.
â Bueno , Iâll stop now. You came here for a cooking class, not a chemistry lesson, mi gente !â
âYou heard that, nephew?â Errol chuckles, looking over at Tristan from across the room. Embarrassed, Tristan pulls the ski cap heâs been wearing all morning a little lower over his face. I am guessing he is not a fan of his chem class. Frankie stares at him as if yanking his hat down has somehow made him even cuter.
âSome people use food processors for the crustâyou can try that at home,â Chef continues. âHere, we are going to do it the old-fashioned way so we can get our hands dirty.â
He tells us to dump the chopped-up chilled butter into our mixing bowls and add the flour. Then we pinch, pinch, pinch it until all of the little butter pellets are coated in white. Everyone is pretty focused for a while, and you can totally tell whoâs determined to get this right (Mom, Dr. Wong, Errol, and Margo) and who just wants to get it done (everyone else!).
Next we form balls of dough. Or some of us doâFrankieâs mom, Theresa, is having trouble getting hers to come together.
âDonât worry if you still see little bits of butter,â my mom explains, âyou really donât want to manhandle it, T.â She leans over to lend a hand, and I have to admit, in a few seconds Theresaâs greasy lump actually looks like a ball of dough. Mom is really good at this.
Chef walks between all the tables, nodding happily. âExcellent. Now we chill the dough for a bit while we make the fillings. Here is where we go our separate ways for a while, mis amigos . Table OneâI leaveyou with Señora Jackie. Everybody else, vamanos !â
Mom takes a deep breath and grins at us. âIâve never taught anybody before, except of course, my children,â she says, looking at me. I can tell she wants me to smile, but Iâm still feeling weird about her suddenly being Chefâs âspecial guest,â and Iâm not in the mood. Henry gives me a look, but I ignore him, too.
âIâve been thinking a lot about my grannyâs favorite recipes,â my mom goes on, âbecause Lizaâs got a big birthday party coming up in a few weeks, and Iâm making all the desserts.â No way . Does someone have to bring up the party everywhere I go? This is just getting worse and worse. Everyone at the table smiles at me, but fortunately, Mom keeps going.
âI chose this one because itâs delicious, simpleââshe pauses while Theresa pumps her fistââand distinctively Southern. Buttermilk pie.â She smiles. âTo me, it tastes like unconditional love and comfort, so I hope you all think itâs as delicious as I do!â
We gather our ingredients, which are pretty simple.Eggs, butter, sugar, vanilla, buttermilk, flour. The next table is chopping apples for apple pie, and the graham-cracker folks are using a food processorâI guess Chef changed his mind, to keep the flying crumbs to a minimumâand melting butter. We measure and mix, using âroundedâ tablespoons of flour. Mom explains that means instead of leveling off the top of the flour as we usually do, her grandmother would want us to let it heap over, or round, a little.
Theresa flings her flour all over the table as she works. âOh, I love your grandmother, Jackie. You know, exactness really isnât my thing!â
I look over at Frankie to see if she heard her momâs understatement of the day, but sheâs completely focused on Tristan, as usual. âSmooth move!â she yells, punching him on the shoulder. I have no idea why, although it might have to do with the overflowing food processor that Tristanâs trying to operate like itâs a
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