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delicious chill bubbled up my spine.
    “All right, let’s start our first recipe. This,” I said, gesturing at the couscoussier I’d purchased in Marrakech, “will help us make authentic couscous.” I moved it to the stove. “This is how they do it in Morocco. You all are going to cook couscous the Western way, but I just want to demonstrate the Moroccan method, just so you can see how it’s done traditionally. Then you’ll compare my couscous with your couscous. Why don’t you all come up here so you can see?”
    The students stepped up and crowded around the demo station. “This is called a couscoussier . French for ‘couscous maker.’” I tilted the wide stainless steel pan so that they could see the perforations. “This piece goes over a large pot and it’s essentially a large steamer basket. Real, authentic couscous is steamed, not boiled.”
    I s lid the school’s standard-issue ceramic tagine front and center on the counter. “How many of you know what this is?”
    A sixty-ish w oman whose makeup was expertly applied and hair perfectly coiffed, raised her French-tip manicured hand and called out, “A tagine.”
    “ Very good. It’s a tagine. This is a traditional Moroccan cooking vessel, and various dishes that are cooked in a tagine are also called tagines.”
    I ran my fingers lightly down the tagine, its deep, earthy red dull compared to the one I had at home. “I’m going to prepare the chicken tagine, so when those of you prepping the vegetables for that dish are done, just bring it up. Okay, let’s get started.”
    After I’d gotten the couscous going, I sent the students back to their tables with assigned tasks so I could cut up chicken. I melted butter with olive oil in the tagine until it became foamy and turned an amber color, then browned the chicken and placed it on a half-sheet pan. When the students had brought me onions and garlic, I browned those, too. I then returned the chicken to the tagine and nestled the pieces in the onions.
    “That looks awesome.”
    I looked up at Julianna, who had left her table and was standing nearby.
    “Let’s hope it tastes as good as it looks.”
    “I have no doubt.” She gave me a little wink and returned to her table. I blinked a few times and tried to remember what I’d been doing. Oh, yes. Chicken.
    The afternoon meal on the second day still always managed to awe the students in a “I can’t believe I made this” kind of way, but it was also when a bit of confidence began to creep into their faces. They took photos of everything but most especially of the dessert. The dish was indeed shutter-worthy. Sliced blood and Valencia oranges layered in a circular pattern, speckled with cardamom. Honey was delicately drizzled over them and a light sprinkling of pistachios finished the dish off.
    At the end of the day, a few students lingered to ask questions. As tired as I was, I appreciated their interest, and tried not to think about a hot shower and putting my feet up.
    Finally, just three students remained, one of them Julianna, who had gone back to her prep table and was slowly collecting her papers.
    “Chef, I believe I saw in the class description that we’re going to make meskouta. Am I remembering that correctly?” Mr. Coleman, a distinguished-looking man in a blue, crisp shirt, asked me.
    I looked at him, surprised at how meskouta rolled off his tongue so easily, like he knew all about it. Maybe he’d done some traveling. He clearly had money, judging from his Rolex and Italian leather shoes. “Yes, you are. We’ll be making that tomorrow. I’ll talk about it then.”
    When he walked away, Julianna caught my eye and sunshine spread across her face. And that sunshine came and found me, like early morning rays on a tropical beach. I didn’t know why, but being around her, seeing her face, rejuvenated me.
    She started to make her way toward me, then stopped when the other remaining student beat her to the demo station.
    The young