front-row regularsâmostly senior citizens who took these sessions way too seriouslyâscowled at us.
âWell, he is,â said my mother. âHeâs holding the knife all wrong. Now, getting back to Bruce â¦â
âI donât want to talk about it,â I said. The chef melted a gigantic glob of butter in a pan. Then he added bacon. My mother gasped as if sheâd witnessed a beheading, and raised her hand.
âIs there a heart-healthy modification for this recipe?â she inquired. The chef sighed and started talking about olive oil. My mother returned her attention to me. âForget Bruce,â she said. âYou can do better.â
âMother!â
âShh!â hissed the front-row foodies. My mother shook her head. âI canât believe this.â
âWhat?â
âWould you look at the size of that pan? That panâs not big enough.â 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.
âJust let it go.â
âHowâs he going to learn anything if nobody tells him when heâs making a mistake?â she complained, squinting at the stage. âThatâs right,â agreed the woman sitting next to her.
âAnd if heâs going to dredge the chicken in that flour,â my mother continued, âI really think he needs to season it first.â
âYou ever try cayenne pepper?â asked an elderly man in the row ahead. âNot too much, you understand, but just a pinch gives it a really nice flavor.â
âThymeâs nice, too,â said my mother.
âOkay, Julia Child.â 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 sheâd 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 sheâd been preparingsince last night. âI know your feelings are hurt right now,â she began. âBut there are a lot of guys out there.â
âYeah, right,â I muttered, keeping my eyes on my cup.
âWomen, too,â my mother continued helpfully.
âMa, how many times do I have to tell you? Iâm not a lesbian! Iâm not interested.â
She shook her head in mock sadness. âI had such high hopes for you,â 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. âThis is an object lesson,â she said.
âThis is a fish stall,â I corrected.
âThis is telling you that there are plenty of fish in the sea,â she said. She walked over and tapped one fingernail on the glass case. I followed her reluctantly. âYou see that?â she said. âThink of each one of those fish as a single guy.â
I stared at the fish. The fish, stacked six high on the crushed ice, seemed to gape back. âThey have better manners,â I observed. âSome of them are probably better conversationalists, too.â
âYou want fish?â 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. âGood fish,â she urged.
âNo thanks,â I said. My mother led me back to the table.
âYou shouldnât be so upset,â she said. âThat article will be lining birdcages by next month. â¦â
âWhat an uplifting thought to share with a journalist,â I said.
âDonât be