The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister Read Free Book Online Page A

pieces of herself and put them back the way they had been. It wouldn’t be too hard. But the quiet moment hadn’t happened, lost between feedings and laundry and a newfound belief that any need of hers fell naturally second to her daughter’s. Over time, the pieces had found new places, not where they had been but where they could be, until the person she became was someone she barely recognized. She didn’t necessarily like that person, and it stunned her that James either couldn’t or wouldn’t see, was willing to sleep with someone who wasn’t really her. It felt—but she didn’t know how she could ever explain this to him—as if he were cheating on her.

    ONCE THE CRABS were cleaned, Lillian explained that they were going to be roasted in the oven. “We’ll make a sauce, and it will permeate into the meat through the cracks in the shell. The best way to eat it is with your hands.”
    The class reassembled in their seats facing the wooden counter in the middle of the room. Lillian put out ingredients—sticks of butter, mounds of chopped onion and minced ginger and garlic, a bottle of white wine, pepper, lemons.
    “We’ll melt the butter first,” she explained, “and then cook the onions until they become translucent.” The class could hear the small snaps as the onions met the hot surface. “Make sure the butter doesn’t brown, though,” Lillian cautioned, “or it will taste burned.”
    When the pieces of onion began to disappear into the butter, Lillian quickly added the minced ginger, a new smell, part kiss, part playful slap. Garlic came next, a soft, warm cushion under the ginger, followed by salt and pepper.
    “You can add some red pepper flakes, if you like,” Lillian said, “and more or less garlic or ginger or other ingredients, depending on the mood you’re in or the one you want to create. Now,” she continued, “we’ll coat the crab and roast it in the oven.
    “Carl, could you help me out?” Lillian handed a bottle of white wine to Carl, who pulled the cork with the skill of years of celebrations and dinners. “White wine is perfect with crab.”
    Lillian poured the wine into a set of glasses and motioned to Claire. “Could you pass these around?”
    One by one Claire carried the glasses to the members of the class—Carl and Helen, Ian, the woman with the beautiful brown eyes, the sad young man, Chloe with the black eyeliner, the woman with the silver hair who smiled absently as if perhaps she knew Claire. Claire returned to her seat.
    “Now,” Lillian said, “what I’d like you to do is relax. Listen. Be still. Smell the change in the air as the crab cooks. Don’t worry; I’ll give you time to get to know one another later, but for right now, I want you to concentrate on your senses.”
    Claire closed her eyes. The room around her quieted as the students placed notepads on the floor and settled into comfortable positions. Claire’s breathing deepened, filling her lungs, slowing her heart. She felt her shoulder blades slide down the lines of her back and her chin rise, as if to bring the air more easily into her nose. The fragrance of the warming ingredients drifted across the room, seeping into her skin, scents both mellow and intriguing, like the lazy excitement of a finger running down the inside of your arm. When Claire lifted her glass to her lips, the white wine erased the other sensations in a clean, cool wave, only to allow them to return again.
    “I’ve warmed some wine and fresh lemon juice,” Lillian noted, “to add at the last minute.” Claire felt the heat from the oven as the door opened and shut, heard the sizzling of the sauce on the crabs, sensed the flavors intensify and change as Lillian added the crisp, clear elements of white wine and lemon.
    “Okay, you can open your eyes. Come and eat.” Claire stood up and moved toward the counter with the other students. They stood one another, shoulders gently jostling, and reached into the pan, gingerly