Read Online The Icing on the Cake by Deborah A. Levine - Free Book Online Page A

flour . . .” Chef Antonio looks around to see if we’re all still paying attention. Most of the adults are, but Javier and Tristan both look pretty bored.
    â€œ Bueno , I’ll stop now. You came here for a cooking class, not a chemistry lesson, mi gente !”
    â€œYou heard that, nephew?” Errol chuckles, looking over at Tristan from across the room. Embarrassed, Tristan pulls the ski cap he’s 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.
    â€œSome people use food processors for the crust—you can try that at home,” Chef continues. “Here, we are going to do it the old-fashioned way so we can get our hands dirty.”
    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 who’s 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 do—Frankie’s mom, Theresa, is having trouble getting hers to come together.
    â€œDon’t worry if you still see little bits of butter,” my mom explains, “you really don’t want to manhandle it, T.” She leans over to lend a hand, and I have to admit, in a few seconds Theresa’s greasy lump actually looks like a ball of dough. Mom is really good at this.
    Chef walks between all the tables, nodding happily. “Excellent. 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 One—I leaveyou with Señora Jackie. Everybody else, vamanos !”
    Mom takes a deep breath and grins at us. “I’ve never taught anybody before, except of course, my children,” she says, looking at me. I can tell she wants me to smile, but I’m still feeling weird about her suddenly being Chef’s “special guest,” and I’m not in the mood. Henry gives me a look, but I ignore him, too.
    â€œI’ve been thinking a lot about my granny’s favorite recipes,” my mom goes on, “because Liza’s got a big birthday party coming up in a few weeks, and I’m making all the desserts.” 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.
    â€œI chose this one because it’s delicious, simple”—she pauses while Theresa pumps her fist—“and distinctively Southern. Buttermilk pie.” She smiles. “To me, it tastes like unconditional love and comfort, so I hope you all think it’s as delicious as I do!”
    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 processor—I guess Chef changed his mind, to keep the flying crumbs to a minimum—and melting butter. We measure and mix, using “rounded” 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. “Oh, I love your grandmother, Jackie. You know, exactness really isn’t my thing!”
    I look over at Frankie to see if she heard her mom’s understatement of the day, but she’s completely focused on Tristan, as usual. “Smooth move!” she yells, punching him on the shoulder. I have no idea why, although it might have to do with the overflowing food processor that Tristan’s trying to operate like it’s a