White Jacket Required (11 page)

Mom had made a delicious pasta dish using fettuccine, Brie cheese, and escarole, the slightly bitter green. She served heaping portions to my dad and me, alongside a simple green salad. I loved how the Brie coated every strand of slippery fettuccine and perfectly rounded out the flavor of the spicy greens. Mom was such a fabulous cook, and she took pride in feeding her family well with dishes that were not only tasty but healthy, too.

Later that evening, I lay in my childhood bed and considered my options. I hadn't let on to my parents that anything was wrong; I just needed time to really think. I could keep going, I could drop out, or . . . I could switch to the Pastry and Baking Program, the other culinary option offered at my school. I hadn't given the P&B program much thought when I enrolled. It cost about the same as the Culinary program, and I just figured since I was there, I might as well do the whole shebang.

The next day, I sat in my closet, organizing clothes I never wore anymore and going through old pairs of shoes, deciding what to take back to Orlando with me and what to donate to Goodwill. I was reaching up to grab a shoebox from the top shelf when a bright orange plastic box fell down, scattering note cards all over my closet floor. I jumped down from the chair I had been standing on and picked up one of the cards. The script was tiny and faded, but I could make out an old-fashioned recipe for Ritz Pie. I knew immediately that the box once had belonged to my great-grandmother, but had no idea how it had found its way into my closet.

“Mom!” I ran into her room with the Ritz Pie recipe in one hand and the orange box in the other. “Where did this come from?” I asked, holding out the box for her to see.

“Oh, I had totally forgotten about that! Grandma gave me that to give to you. Those are all of Great-Grandma's recipes from when she had the bakery during World War Two. Grandma thought you might like to have them,” my mom said, a smile growing on her face.

I had almost forgotten about my great-grandmother, who had worked as a baker and cake decorator during the Second World War, while her young husband fought on the front lines in Europe. After he was killed in the war, my great-grandmother had three young children to support, and she continued to work as a baker for the rest of her life. She had passed away when I was just a baby, so I never really knew her, but I wore her tiny emerald-studded ring on my right hand.

“I think she would have wanted you to have these, Jennifer. She had the best dessert recipes!” Mom said.

Back in my room, I carefully went through the cards, sitting cross-legged with them scattered all around me. I could have sworn they still smelled of spun sugar and buttercream icing. There were recipes for Swedish ginger cookies, sour-cream coffee cake, and a very retro chocolate pie made with saltine crackers and whipped cream. Other recipes called for old-fashioned ingredients such as clabbered milk and lard, and I immediately started thinking of how I could remake these desserts in a modern-day kitchen. I was taken with the story, the faded handwriting, and the recipes themselves, and suddenly all I wanted to do was bake. What if I reworked all these recipes for a more modern kitchen and then wrote a book about it? My heart started fluttering. Yes, I thought, that's what I will do. It was perfect! I could combine my passions for food, writing, and history all in one. But first, I would need to know how to rewrite the recipes.

The whole thing seemed like an answered prayer. I no longer stressed about my decision to go to culinary school, and instead prepared to tell my parents about my new decision: to switch over to the Baking and Pastry Program. It was perfect, really. I could swap my hours at the restaurant for a day shift and then go to school at night, when the B&P program took place. I would learn everything possible about baking, and then when I graduated, I would work on Great-Grandma's recipe collection. I couldn't wait.

Come to think of it, I didn't love to carve pork. I didn't even
really
love to chop carrots. What did I love to do more than anything? Bake. It's been said that most people can cook but not everyone can bake, and I had always found solace and comfort in reading recipes and watching bread rise. I loved the fact that if you followed the recipe's instructions, the final product would turn out as expected. In a world with no real guarantees, the fact that I was promised sugar cookies in one hour if I read the fine print in my big yellow
Gourmet
bible was an unmitigated joy. I was sure that switching to the B&P program was the answer to my prayers and, that night, I prepared to tell my parents the news over dinner.

My mom was serving up slices of perfectly cooked roast pork when I piped up.

“I have an announcement to make!” I said. “I've decided that I want to switch over from the Culinary Program to the Baking and Pastry Program at school.”

Mom and Dad raised their eyebrows while John stuffed a large piece of pork in his mouth. “Honey?” Dad said. “What brought this on? I thought things were going well at school.”

I sighed. “It's been . . . fine. I just haven't been one hundred percent happy, and with the kind of money I'm spending to go, I want to actually enjoy my time there.”

I chewed on a piece of pork and instantly memories of Meat Fab came flooding back, leaving an almost bitter taste in my mouth. I had been so looking forward to my mom's cooking during this break, but this was not what I'd expected. After dealing solely with chopping up animals for the past month, I had simply lost my appetite for meat. I couldn't help but notice, though, the color of the pork and wonder if it had been cooked to a proper 160 degrees. I just couldn't seem to escape meat, no matter where I was.

“But are you sure you want to do this?” Mom asked, a look of worry in her eyes. “I thought you said getting a general degree in culinary arts was looked at with higher regard in the actual job market . . . . You don't want to transfer now just because it's easier and then have a harder time later getting a job!”

“Mom, you know I don't want to be a restaurant chef anyway!” I said. “My passion isn't for cooking chicken, it's for baking. Finding Great-Grandma's recipe box solidified that. I want to learn everything possible about baking and desserts so that I know enough to rewrite her recipes.” I didn't add that I had already found out that some of my credits would transfer over, so I'd still be able to graduate at the same time. I gingerly sliced through my pork again, seeing visions of the whole animals that I had just broken down a few days before.

“Well, you're right. It is your money and your time. If you think switching programs is best, we trust you,” Dad said with a smile.

Later, my mom came up to my room and lightly knocked on the door. I was sitting in my pajamas on my bed, with Great-Grandma's recipes spread out all over my comforter.

“Jenny Ren?” Mom called softly. “Can I come in?”

Jenny Ren was her pet name for me, a name she had been calling me since I was a baby, even though no one else in the world did.

“Of course, come on in!” I called.

Mom was wearing her pajamas, too, and her shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail. Growing up, I always wanted to be just like her, and it sometimes struck me how similar we'd become as I'd grown older.

“I just wanted you to know that I'm proud of you . . . really. Great-Grandma would be proud of you, too. I think you're making the right decision,” she said, sitting down on the edge of my bed and picking up one of the faded recipe cards.

I smiled. “Thanks,” I said.

“You always did have that stubborn streak in you, just like Grandpa. Once you get your mind wrapped around something, there's no turning back, is there?” Mom let out a soft laugh and reached over to gently squeeze my shoulder. “But I think baking is much more up your alley,” she added.

I could hear John's video games almost shaking the bedroom wall, and Mom rolled her eyes. “See, or rather
hear
, what you're missing? That boy will be the death of me.”

I thought about asking my brother to go to a movie over the break, but I knew he would say no. We had never been very close, but I had always wanted and wished for a best-friend type of sibling relationship. With my living away from home and his being a sullen teenager, that seemed almost impossible now. Still, it couldn't hurt to try. I just hoped he wasn't falling in with the wrong crowd at school. Mom reassured me he wasn't, but I had my doubts. A few times I thought I had smelled pot in his car, but when I tried to confront him about it he just laughed it off and denied anything. John had been pushing the limits in every way since we were kids; he was as much of a rebel as I was a conservative rule-follower, and I hoped he was staying safe. Mom had also casually mentioned that a few times a very cute, soft-spoken girl with long brown hair had been hanging around the house. Of course, whenever she brought it up with John, he turned bright red, muttered a one-word response, and ran up the stairs.

I laughed and chatted with Mom for a while longer before turning off the light and climbing into bed. A sense of peace washed over me that I hadn't felt in quite a while. I still had almost two whole weeks at home to think and plan for the change. There would be no more butchery, no more precision cuts, and no more bleeding all over the onions.

Linguine with Escarole and Brie

Serves 4

Peppery escarole, creamy Brie cheese, and salty, crisp bacon—in a word, delicious! If you can't find escarole, use kale instead.

8 ounces dry linguine pasta

2 ounces bacon, chopped

1 large garlic clove, minced

1 shallot, minced

1 pound fresh escarole, chopped into 1-inch ribbons

½ pound Brie cheese, rind removed and cheese diced into medium-size cubes (it doesn't matter if the cubes aren't perfect!)

Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Cook the pasta according to package directions in a pot of boiling salt water until
al dente
.

Meanwhile, cook the bacon in a large skillet until crispy. Add the garlic and shallot and cook for another two minutes, stirring well. Add the escarole and toss together, cooking until wilted.

When the pasta is cooked, drain it (reserving ½ cup cooking water). Toss the pasta with the escarole in the skillet until well combined, then add the Brie. Cook until the Brie begins to melt, adding a little of the extra cooking water if the pasta gets too dry.

Season with salt and pepper and serve.

Old-Fashioned Chocolate-Walnut Torte

Serves 6

Ahh, the dessert of my childhood. This torte screams “retro,” and you'll never guess the secret ingredient.

2 egg whites

1¼ cups granulated sugar, divided

20 saltines, crushed

2 cups heavy cream

3 tablespoons cocoa powder, plus additional for dusting

1½ cups chopped walnuts

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Heavily grease two cake pans with butter (cooking spray won't work here).

Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer on high speed. When you can't see the bottom of the bowl, slowly add 1 cup of the granulated sugar, continuing to beat on high, until stiff, glossy peaks form. Fold saltines into meringue.

Spread meringue over the bottoms of cake pans and bake for 25 minutes. Transfer the meringues in the pans to a wire rack to cool completely.

Meanwhile, whip the cream with the cocoa powder and the remaining ¼ cup sugar. Fold in walnuts.

When meringues are cool, gently peel them out of the cake pans. This might be difficult, but it's easiest if you run a knife very gently underneath the meringue to loosen it up a bit. Don't worry if it breaks a little—you'll be covering the whole thing in whipped cream anyway, so no one will know the difference.

Spread half of the whipped cream onto one meringue layer. Gently place the other layer on top and top with remaining whipped cream. Spread meringue evenly over the sides of the meringues, then dust top with cocoa powder.

10
MOVING ON

I
PULLED INTO MY APARTMENT PARKING SPOT, TRUNK FILLED WITH
suitcases and groceries, eager to see Helen again after two weeks apart. She had gotten home a few hours before I did, and we were planning on cooking something easy for dinner together that night. My arms were full as I flung open the door and shouted inside, “Mella!” using my childhood name for her. When we were seven, Helen's grandmother from Greece taught us our Greek names—mine was Yonulla—and we had been using them for each other ever since. It started as a childhood joke, but somehow it still stuck almost fifteen years later.

Helen walked into the kitchen wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, with her hair done up in a messy knot on the top of her head. Without ever seeming to try, she always managed to look fashionable.

She gave me a big hug. “Yonulla! I've missed you!” she said.

“I missed you, too. I can't wait to be filled in on everything over dinner. Want to go out?” I asked while starting to unload the groceries.

“Sounds perfect. I've been craving some good Pad Thai lately. Do you need help bringing in anything from downstairs?” she asked, and I couldn't help but notice how much healthier and more rested she looked than when we'd parted only two weeks ago. The dark circles had pretty much faded entirely from around her eyes, and she seemed relaxed and full of life.

“Nope, I got them all. Thanks, though. I'm just going to unpack a little, then I'll freshen up and be ready for dinner,” I said.

I couldn't wait to tell Helen the news of my decision to switch programs. I had one more general culinary class to get through before I could officially make the switch, but that class happened to be Introduction to Baking, so I was excited regardless. Tomorrow I would have to talk to the registrar's office, and I also needed to talk to Tony at work to make sure I could swap my night shift for daytime. Everything seemed to be falling perfectly into place, and I couldn't wait to get going.