The Kitchen Counter Cooking School by Kathleen Flinn Read Free Book Online Page A

sigh. “I was only allowed to include six ingredients in the list. So I cut out at least four from my original version. Plus, I had fresh basil in the dish, and that really made it work. But my story got bumped from August to November, and since basil isn’t seasonal then, the food editor cut the basil. It’s funny, home cooks think recipes turn out bland because it’s their fault. The reality is that there is so much pressure to make recipes short that food writers have to cut out steps or ingredients to make them look simpler, or, in the case of the basil, less expensive.”
    For lunch, Trish made ratatouille. She chopped an eggplant in a curious moment of butchery with a blunt paring knife. “Knife skills,” I wrote on my notepad. Next she opened a couple of cans of tomatoes. As it cooked, she talked. Mike kept filming her discreetly. She and her husband avoided fast food, red meat, and pork for health reasons. Trader Joe’s was their main stop for groceries. “We don’t have a budget for food, but, then, we don’t have extravagant tastes either. We’re coming close to retirement age, and, like most everyone else, there is less money now.” She broiled the occasional fish fillet in the toaster oven or baked sweet potatoes. Her husband made the nightly salad. She bought a lot of bottled salad dressings. I made another note on my pad: “Teach vinaigrette.”
    â€œIn terms of seasonings, they’re basic. I sprinkle a little balsamic vinegar on green vegetables, lemon on the fish, and butter and salt on potatoes. That’s what I know how to do.”
    As we sat down for lunch, she fussed, setting the table with expensive antique dishes, embroidered white cloth napkins, and real silver. Her ratatouille was good, just a little undersalted, which made sense as Trish seemed absolutely terrified of salt.
    All this made me curious as to how a smart, organized woman who possessed the basic building blocks of cooking had ended up so tentative. When asked a question, she’d invariably answer, “I don’t know, is that right?” Yet she’s a psychologist, a professional paid for thoughtful commentary and insight into others’ lives. She had so much emotional baggage wrapped up in cooking that I kept stifling my urge to say, “And Trish, how does that make you feel?”

SHANNON
    The next day, Lisa and I pulled up to a classic 1960s-era ranch house with a white picket fence in a quiet working-class neighborhood. Toys in various states of repair languished on torn-up sod in the front yard. Shannon was a thirty-two-year-old stay-at-home mom with two kids. She had recently purchased a couple of chickens to keep in her backyard and grew a small patch of vegetables. Shannon subscribed to food magazines and combed Internet sites for recipes. None of it made her feel what she called “kitchen confident.”
    Her mother answered the door. “I don’t know what you’re going to teach her,” she said dismissively to Lisa and me, turning away as soon as we entered. “She burns everything.” Shannon appeared behind her, a trim, pretty brunette with an easy smile and a pixie haircut, a lean baby girl balanced on her hip. Visibly irritated by her mother’s remark, she let it pass. Shannon handed her the baby and took us into her kitchen, a large sunny space with pale Formica countertops and a classic suite of nondescript white appliances. She kept a row of cookbooks on one shelf, something of a rarity in the kitchens we visited.
    Shannon has an easygoing way about her, occasionally punctuating sentences with flinging arms or wide-eyed expressions or a curious rolling-winking of one eye, an endearing tic. “I’d describe my cooking skills as pretty basic,” she started. “I can bake pretty well but cooking has always kind of escaped me. I can read a recipe and follow it, but most stuff turns out pretty bland. I