by Adams, S. C.
Everyone laughs, and this time it’s not forced. Stanton is one of Gramps’s bridge buddies and his biggest rival. They compete over everything. I’m glad Gramps puts being a chef over being a dentist. It is true that dating a chef opens up a lot more opportunities to eat.
Our lunch conversation continues to flow freely. My grandparents are an acquired taste, but Nate is getting along with them so well. That makes me happy. I couldn’t date someone who didn’t like my grandparents. I’d choose them over anyone else, any day. They raised me when my parents died. I think they deserve my devotion for that.
After lunch, the four of us play poker using tri-color tortilla chips to bet. Nate cleans house, leaving Gramps grumbling about young people these days. He’s smiling as he says it, so I know he’s not really angry.
We end up cooking dinner together as a family and settling onto the couch for a movie.
“Don’t you need to get back to the city?” I ask Nate.
He shakes his head. “I cleared my weekend so I could be here with you.”
My heart nearly bursts. “Thank you,” I whisper. I kiss him gently before my grandparents arrive with the popcorn.
After the movie, Grams and Gramps head up to bed. Before disappearing upstairs, Grams pulls me aside.
“I like him a lot,” she admits. “Your grandfather does, too. And you look so happy with him. Really happy, not the fake happy you’ve been putting on all week.”
Grams may not be funny, but she’ll always be intuitive. I should have known she would see through my happy act.
“Goodnight, Grams. I love you.”
She kisses my cheek and follows my grandfather into their room, leaving Nate and me alone.
I settle beside him on the couch. “Thank you for coming all the way out here, and for getting along so well with my grandparents.”
“I know they’re important to you,” he says. “And it was easy to get along with them. Your grandfather is a hoot.”
“He liked you a lot.”
“I’m glad.”
We both yawn, and then laugh. “I think it’s time for bed,” Nate decides.
My room only has a twin sized bed. Nate strips down to his boxers and I change in my pajamas. We climb onto the small mattress. There’s barely enough room for the two of us.
“Don’t push me out of bed in the middle of the night,” Nate jokes. “Though I’d probably deserve it for how I treated you last weekend.”
“All is forgiven,” I tell him, realizing it’s true. Grams was right once again – you shouldn’t stay mad at the person you love. I guess clichés really are clichés for a reason.
“Well, even so, I need to guarantee I’m not going to wake up on the floor,” Nate says against my ear. “I think that means we’ll have to cuddle all night long.”
He pulls me against his chest, offering me the world’s best pillow. I can hear the steady beat of his heart through his warm skin.
“Goodnight, Alyssa,” Nate whispers. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I tell him before drifting off to sleep.
For the first time since we broke up, I actually manage to sleep through the night.
21
Nathaniel
Monday
Coming back to class was hard after such a blissful weekend in Maine. Having Alyssa on my arm made it a lot easier.
According to the school administration, there are no rules against an instructor dating a student as long as the instructor remains impartial and grades the student on skill. I am more than capable of handling that if it means I get to see Alyssa.
“Are you ready?” I ask my beautiful girlfriend before we head into the classroom.
Alyssa nods. “I’m really happy to be back. I never should have left in the first place.”
She’s right. It’s my fault she had to miss a week’s worth of class. We went over the assignments this past weekend, though, and I have no doubt she’ll be able to master the skills for the final.
I take Alyssa’s hand and push open the classroom door. Every eye in the room is on us, but almost all of them lose interest quickly. I guess Alyssa and I weren’t as stealthy with our relationship as we thought. It doesn’t help that most of these people probably saw the episode of my reality show that featured Alyssa. I should call my assistant and apologize for flipping out on her about that episode.
One person can’t seem to look away. She stares wide-eyed like a deer caught in the headlights.
I was amazed when Samantha showed up in class on Tuesday. After everything she did, I thought she’d drop out. I’m guessing her dad made her stay.
Luckily, from this point on in the semester, all of the projects will be solo projects. Alyssa won’t have to work side by side with the woman who sabotaged our relationship.
Alyssa is too good of a person to purposely screw up a dish to get Samantha a bad grade, but I wouldn’t put it past Samantha to attempt a last-ditch effort at winning my affection.
Honestly, I can’t believe she ever thought she had a chance given what I feel for her now.
Neither of us say a word to Samantha. Alyssa takes her seat at her desk and smiles at a few of the other students. They start up small conversations until I get to the white board and start the lecture. The class settles as soon as my marker hits the white board.
“Today we’re making bread,” I explain. “Tomorrow, we’ll be baking the bread and using it in our recipe. For today, you’re going to practice kneading the dough and then we’ll let it rise overnight.”
My lecture continues with a discussion on yeast and different types of bread. We’re going to make rolls that would act as a pre-meal snack for customers and then we’re going to prepare baguettes and ciabatta bread. The ciabatta will be for Wednesday’s lesson.
“Does anyone have any questions?”
A few hands shoot up. The first one I call on, a kid named Davis who sits in the back and is incredible with seafood, asks, “Are the techniques for making bread fairly consistent or will what we do today be unique to the breads we’re making?”
“Excellent question. While each type of bread will have its own set of rules, for the most part you’re following the same general formula.”
Davis jots down my answer and nods. The other questions are similarly important for the class to know. I note them mentally in case I teach the course again. I’ll add the questions to the lecture in case no one asks afterwards.
When no more hands are raised, I dismiss the students to their kitchens. Alyssa maintains a wide berth around Samantha who shoots daggers at both me and Alyssa. She’s a petty brat. I hope she grows up eventually.
Though I keep an eye on everyone, I’m keenly aware of how Alyssa is doing. I won’t judge her unfairly, but I will definitely watch how she works. No one can stop me from looking at my beautiful girlfriend. She looks effortlessly great in her fitted chef’s jacket. Unlike Samantha who, once again, has the top buttons undone in an attempt to look sexy.
When will she ever learn that being a chef is not a sexy job? If she wants to show off her body, she should take up a different career.
But back to Alyssa. The timid girl from the first day of class is completely gone. My woman moves around the kitchenette with the confidence of a seasoned professional. Without questioning herself, she gathers the bread flour, yeast, sugar, water, and everything else she’ll need to prepare the dough. This is the kind of progress we’re supposed to see at NYACA. We want chefs to leave here sure of their abilities. That’s the only way you’ll make it in the real world.
Samantha’s own confidence wanes with every passing second. She’s had the opposite transformation. She started class with a straight, stuck-up posture that has since hunched over with every poor grade.
“Nathaniel, can you help me attach the dough hook to my mixer?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.
Alyssa shoots a dirty look at the girl’s back. We both know what Samantha is still trying to do.
�
�Of course,” I respond. I cross the room and quickly put the hook onto her stand mixer. It’s so easy a child could do it, but Samantha thrives on the attention.
The rest of the class stays relatively quiet, with only a few scattered questions.
Bread is a multi-step process, so I surprise the students with a secondary task while their dough begins its first rise.
“I want you all to make a main course with two sides. It can be any dish of your choice using the techniques you’ve learned thus far.”
No one complains. Most of the students appear excited about the challenge. That’s another sign of a good chef: the desire to cook no matter what the circumstances.
The students flutter around the classroom, picking up all the ingredients they’ll need for their special dishes. My eyes land once again on Alyssa who bites her lip in concentration as she looks into the fridge for something.
I half expected her to re-create the delicious alfredo dish she made for lunch over the weekend. Instead, she surprises me by pulling salmon steaks and crab meat from the fridge. Alyssa missed the seafood chapter, and now she’s trying to prove that she can still keep up with the class. She really has changed a lot since that first day, and I couldn’t be prouder.
When it comes time to taste test the students’ dishes, I’m excited. The classroom is filled with delicious scents emanating from each kitchenette. Smell is the first sign that a dish is going to be tasty.
I hardly have any complaints for the first half of the classroom. Some need more seasoning or a stronger sear, but for the most part, the students execute perfectly. I guess that makes me a pretty good teacher.
When I get to Alyssa’s kitchen, I’m greeted with grilled salmon steaks, crab cakes, and perfectly blanched green beans. I was worried about the melding of two very different seafood flavors, but Alyssa used complementary spices on the salmon and crab to create a coherent dish.
“Excellent,” I tell her honestly. “Your salmon is slightly overcooked, but the crab cake is perfect.”
“Thank you, chef,” she beams.
I move on to Samantha’s plate where I find salmon filet, mashed potatoes, and grilled sweet corn. I take a bite of the salmon and it’s all I can do not to spit it out.
“Did you cook this at all?” I ask while I chew the rubbery fish.
“Of course!” Samantha exclaims. “It’s perfectly done.”
“It’s practically raw,” I inform her. I force myself to swallow the disgusting bite and move on to the sides. The corn is fine, but it’s hard to mess up corn. The mashed potatoes, though, are somehow runny and overly chunky at the same time. “This is not the kind of work I’m looking for at this point in the semester.”
I finish tasting the rest of the dishes. Thankfully, no one else fails as badly as Samantha.
Back at the front of the class, I stare at my students.
“Listen,” I tell them. “We’re almost halfway through the semester which makes this a critical part of the course. I’m expecting you to step up your game and only give me the best dishes you can make. Understood?”
“Yes, chef,” the class responds. I stare deliberately at Samantha who wears a smug smile as if she’s won something. She’s going to regret that look come the end of the semester. With food like hers, there’s no way she’s going to pass the class.
While the students knead their dough and clean their stations, I find myself watching Alyssa again. She’s graceful in the kitchen, even when she has to avoid Samantha.
I picked the best woman to fall in love with.
Teaching this class was the best decision of my life, because it brought me to Alyssa. No matter how obnoxious one of the students is, I have to remember that teaching here changed my life for the better, and I think I’ve changed the lives of most of the students, too. That’s what really matters.
22
Nathaniel
Seven Months Later.
It’s only fitting that the last day of the course be an un-graded dessert day. The students are hard at work preparing coconut macaroons, cupcakes, pies, and any other desserts they wanted to make. The smell of sugar dances around the classroom.
While they bake, I put the finishing touches on their semester report cards. I look back at my notes as I finalize their grades to make sure everyone is treated fairly. I’m not giving out a single grade that isn’t deserved.
“Are we almost finished?” I call out to the class.
“Yes, chef!” they chorus in return.
“Great,” I tell them. “As soon as you’ve finished your dessert, put it on the table. We’ll have a potluck to celebrate.”
The class cheers. One by one, they bring their finished products to the newest addition to the classroom. I had the custodian bring a long table to place between the sets of desks. I brought in soda and pizza, which we already enjoyed. Soon we’ll get the sweets that have been calling my name since everyone started baking.
When the last dish is on the table, I ask everyone to take their seats.
“It’s been a pleasure teaching all of you this year,” I begin. “You’ve all learned so much since you started the course. I have enjoyed watching you grow from day one to now.”
“Thank you, Chef,” one student calls out. The rest share his sentiment except for, of course, Samantha. She has been sulking since her ploys haven’t worked. She’s also been terrible at every dish she’s had to prepare throughout the rest of last semester and all of this semester. I even tried to work with her more than the other students to help her succeed, but it never worked. She’s just not a great chef.
“I have your grades for the course here, along with some notes on your performance. Look them over, and use my critiques to hone in on your skills even when you land jobs in restaurants. A good chef knows he or she always has room to improve.”
I hand out the report cards to each student. Once everyone has theirs, I tell them to go ahead and read them and enjoy the desserts their peers created.
“I encourage you to try at least two dishes that you didn’t prepare yourselves. Remember, you’ll likely work with pastry chefs at your restaurants, so you should get used to taste testing other people’s work.”
The students don’t need to be told twice. They hardly look at my carefully prepared grade reports before charging the long table.
Samantha is among the few who reads her report card. She finds the glaring F inside and stands from the table with an exaggerated crash. Without a word to anyone, she leaves the classroom.
Hopefully, that’s the last we’ll see of her. I won’t let my hopes get up too high, though. Lord knows that girl shows up when I least expect – and least want her to.
Alyssa is one of the other students more concerned with her grades than the desserts. I watch as she opens it to find the honors level grade at the top of her card.
She catches my eye and gasps. You deserve it, I mouth. She truly does. Not only was she the most improved student, but her dishes over the last semester were practically flawless.
I keep an eye on her as she reads through the rest of her card. Her face turns bright red when she sees my special note just for her. She closes the card quickly and slips it into her bag before joining the rest of the class.
Now that everyone has gotten their share, I venture to the table as well. I take one of everything to taste, though there’s no way I’ll be able to eat it all, as tempting as that is.
Tomorrow, the class will graduate in front of their friends and family. This party is their chance to celebrate completing the course as a group. It’s about them talking with their peers and remembering the different dishes they made throughout the year. I look on with pride as my students laugh and have a good time with each other. My heart contracts with the realization that the year really is over. These students will never be in one room with each other ever again.
I shake the thought from my head. For today, I’m going to be happy to have met these incredible students. I might even en
d up hiring some of them for my restaurants. They’re much more talented than I thought they were at the beginning of the course. These students surprised me in the best way.
Because half of my class is underage, I couldn’t bring champagne for the celebration. Instead, I break out bottles of sparkling cider and pour them into plastic flutes.
“To an amazing year!” I toast, holding my cup in the air.
“To an amazing instructor!” a student, Davis, shouts in response. We all laugh and sip our cider.
We enjoy our graduation party for an hour before the students clean up their stations, take their desserts, and head home to begin their job search. It’s a different feeling than the end of last semester, when we knew we would all see each other again less than a month later. This feels final, and many students linger until the last possible second so as to not lose the camaraderie they found in this class. I shake every students’ hand as they walk out the door and thank them for taking the class. Some of them respond by thanking me for teaching them to be great chefs. That’s the best reason to become a teacher – to hear students say that they learned something from you. It’s why I’ve already signed up to teach the next class of NYACA candidates in the fall.
Alyssa stays behind to help me clean up the dessert table. We work in silence for a while until she can’t bite her tongue any longer.
“What do you mean by a special graduation treat?” she asks innocently, her eyes bright.
I kiss the top of her head.
“You’ll just have to trust me.”
Alyssa pouts.
“Why can’t you tell me now?”
“You’ll see later tonight!” I assure her. “For now, James is waiting outside to take you back home so you can get ready for our big date night.”
Her face lights up.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”
We share a passionate kiss before she scurries out the door to meet with our driver. I would have joined her, but I have a few last minute things to take care of.
