Free Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner

front-row regulars—mostly senior citizens who took these sessions way too seriously—scowled at us.
    â€œWell, he is,” said my mother. “He’s holding the knife all wrong. Now, getting back to Bruce …”
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it,” I said. The chef melted a gigantic glob of butter in a pan. Then he added bacon. My mother gasped as if she’d witnessed a beheading, and raised her hand.
    â€œIs there a heart-healthy modification for this recipe?” she inquired. The chef sighed and started talking about olive oil. My mother returned her attention to me. “Forget Bruce,” she said. “You can do better.”
    â€œMother!”
    â€œShh!” hissed the front-row foodies. My mother shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWould you look at the size of that pan? That pan’s not big enough.” Sure enough, the chef-in-training was cramming way too much imperfectly chopped cabbage into a shallow frying pan. My mother raised her hand. I yanked it down.
    â€œJust let it go.”
    â€œHow’s he going to learn anything if nobody tells him when he’s making a mistake?” she complained, squinting at the stage. “That’s right,” agreed the woman sitting next to her.
    â€œAnd if he’s going to dredge the chicken in that flour,” my mother continued, “I really think he needs to season it first.”
    â€œYou ever try cayenne pepper?” asked an elderly man in the row ahead. “Not too much, you understand, but just a pinch gives it a really nice flavor.”
    â€œThyme’s nice, too,” said my mother.
    â€œOkay, Julia Child.” I closed my eyes, slumping lower in my folding chair as the chef moved on to candied sweet potatoes and apple fritters, and my mother continued to quiz him about substitutions, modifications, techniques that she’d learned in her years as a homemaker, while offering running commentary to the bemusement of the people sitting near her and the fury of the entire front row.
    Later, over cappuccinos and hot buttered pretzels from the Amish pretzel stand, she gave me the speech I was sure she’d been preparingsince last night. “I know your feelings are hurt right now,” she began. “But there are a lot of guys out there.”
    â€œYeah, right,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on my cup.
    â€œWomen, too,” my mother continued helpfully.
    â€œMa, how many times do I have to tell you? I’m not a lesbian! I’m not interested.”
    She shook her head in mock sadness. “I had such high hopes for you,” she fake-sighed, and pointed toward one of the fish stalls, where pike and carp were stacked on top of each other, openmouthed and googly-eyed, their scales gleaming silver under the lights. “This is an object lesson,” she said.
    â€œThis is a fish stall,” I corrected.
    â€œThis is telling you that there are plenty of fish in the sea,” she said. She walked over and tapped one fingernail on the glass case. I followed her reluctantly. “You see that?” she said. “Think of each one of those fish as a single guy.”
    I stared at the fish. The fish, stacked six high on the crushed ice, seemed to gape back. “They have better manners,” I observed. “Some of them are probably better conversationalists, too.”
    â€œYou want fish?” asked a short Asian woman in a floor-length rubber apron. She had a filleting knife in one hand. I thought, briefly, about asking to borrow it, and what it would feel like to gut Bruce. “Good fish,” she urged.
    â€œNo thanks,” I said. My mother led me back to the table.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be so upset,” she said. “That article will be lining birdcages by next month. …”
    â€œWhat an uplifting thought to share with a journalist,” I said.
    â€œDon’t be