Cooking 101

I recently told someone that I think there should be an "in-between" cooking school that teaches basic techniques. Central Market has an awesome knife skills class, but it seems like the rest of their classes go over making a specific meal or type of cuisine. I'd love to take classes that centered around basic cooking skills - pastry making, sauce making, bread making, etc.

I'm lucky I have my mom, I can call her in a panic, or plan a Sunday afternoon in her kitchen for her to walk me through all the basics. 

Last year, after some very failed attempts, I had my mom walk me through pie crust. A few weeks ago, I passed on the lesson to a friend of mine from work. Before I share our pie crust lesson, I wanted to do an entry sharing what my mom wrote about our afternoon together last year.

RECIPE FOR FAMILY

by Faye Beaulieu

It was never about the piecrust.

Two weeks before Thanksgiving, my daughter, now married for one year to the young man who won her heart the day she turned sixteen, called me with a request.  She wanted a piecrust lesson.

Now you have to understand – this is the daughter who is not at all fazed by the prospect of working with phyllo dough.  She stuffs pork chops, grills salmon, creates fruit cup containers out of citrus rind, and bakes challah.  She has her own cooking blog, for crying out loud.  And she wanted me to teach her how to make piecrust.

I have my high school home economics teacher to thank for this moment.  I grew up in rural Mississippi.  Girls took “homemaking.” Guys took “shop.”  I made the requisite garments during the weeks devoted to sewing, but those lessons never took.  The gathered skirt and button-front blouse hung in my closet unworn.  They earned me an A in class, but I was never happy with the way they looked.  To this day, I’m grateful that I learned to hem, to sew on buttons, and to replace broken zippers.  Bolts of fabric in a cloth store and patterns that promise to turn that fabric into fabulous creations, however, hold no magic for me.

But cooking was another story.  The weeks spent in that unit flew by.  I learned to measure, to whip egg whites, to make emergency substitutions.  Time actually spent in the classroom kitchen was charmed, and I looked forward eagerly to the days when it was my turn to cook.  To this day I regularly pull out a couple of the recipes taken away from those classes; I’ve never found a way to improve on the Chocolate Sheet Cake and its partner icing.

One of the stock items taught every year to first-years was the daunting Caramel Pie.  Not only did the unseasoned cooks-in-training face learning to caramelize sugar, but they also had to figure out how to get an acceptable shell to emerge from the flour, shortening, and salt stacked on the counter. A very patient Mrs. Scott guided hairnetted newbies through the process: cutting the shortening into the flour, adding just enough cold water to make a soft dough, and rolling out the crust.  Sounds easy enough.  Veterans, however, know there’s a reason the refrigerated ReadyCrusts sell as well as they do. 

I agreed to the request for the Saturday afternoon piecrust lesson, and Carla and I jumped into the process, she eager to add another skill to her repertoire, I just happy to have something to share with her.  I showed her how to use the pastry blender to integrate flour and shortening, how to add cold water bit by bit, how to work the resulting mass into soft dough and how to coax a smooth, even product from the dough with the aid of one of my most-treasured possessions: my thirty-year-old wooden rolling pin.  

And as we worked, we talked.  About husbands, about professions, about friends, about life. We relived experiences from pages of our own family history and speculated on the future.  We shared dreams and exchanged opinions on everything from the imminent presidential race to hybrid cars. 

And as the time passed, the pie shell moved from the counter to the baking dish, and we spent a few minutes on fluting techniques and ways to control the color of the crust as it bakes. We decided on a chicken-spinach quiche to fill the shell, and we cleaned the kitchen as it baked.  She left as the sun set, her half of the quiche resting in foil on the floorboard, dinner for her and James.  

It really never was about the piecrust.  It was about a mother and daughter spending time together, reinforcing the structure on which family is built.  And about revisiting those important moments that give us hope for the days ahead.  When she opens her birthday present – a pastry blender, a collection of cookie cutters, and her own heavy wooden rolling pin – I hope the memories of our afternoon together drift up from the tissue paper as well.

I love you mom! Thanks for ALL the lessons, not just the pie crust one :)

Below is my mom, Living United!