could ever transform my homegrown recipes into works of art.
But me? Back to school? I couldn’t do that.
You won’t know if you don’t try,
I said to myself. But where would I go? The thought of Juanita Louis and her one-word French vocabulary of “oui” taking cooking lessons in Paris, France?
Girl, I don’t think so.
But then, I remembered something. Something stashed in the back of my mind beneath balled-up grocery receipts and my grandmother’s pound cake recipe. It was one of those “ruby slippers” moments—the answer was right in front of my face.
One day, late last summer after my painting class at the community college, I waited to hitch a ride back to Paper Moon with Mignon, who had stopped in to see one of her teachers. I had passed the time by reading the flyers on the bulletin board. It had all kinds of stuff on it: ads for roommates (“Alternative lifestyles OK”), apartments (“ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING AND NO PETS,” “Vegans only”), David’s Tattoos and Laundromat, and diet pills, contacts for marijuana for medicinal purposes, piercing studios (“Tongues are our specialty”), and the schedules for the next term. The “Food Services Management Department” announcement was copied onto hot-pink paper. There were courses in restaurant administration, institutional food management, and banquet coordination. A deadline for applications to the culinary arts program was set out in bold, black letters. Mignon tapped me on the shoulder, I picked up my portfolio, and we left.
Now the official-looking words on that bulletin board came back to me: “The Culinary Arts Program is accepting applicants for its eighteen-month program. Applications may be obtained . . .”
Peaches and I left Los Angeles heading south. It was beautiful but I don’t think I saw a damn thing. All I could think about was cooking. Real cooking. And school.
Being a chef was for Jess, it was for Yancey and Wendy. Not for me. The whole idea scared me. Going to school.
Real
school where I would probably be at least a hundred years older than everyone else. Where I would be at least twenty years stupider than everyone else. I talked myself out of the idea as I stared at the road ahead.
Then, Peaches’s voice floated into my consciousness. And I said, “Yeah.” I have no idea what she said.
“Juanita, are you all right? Is something wrong?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m fine. Just daydreaming,” I said.
I imagined a delicate swirl of whipped cream rising above a perfectly cut slice of bourbon sweet potato pecan pie that I had placed in the center of a plain white dessert plate. A plate of perfect little bite-sized somethings tartared in a puff pastry shell, a fairy-sized dollop of mousse on top of each piece. Ah, yes. Horse doovers from Juanita Louis, Chef. You know, that sounded pretty good.
Chapter Three
----
H eroines in romance novels have a few things in common. They’re beautiful, which is probably a good thing. Otherwise the romance part would go out of the window. They are also nineteen years old, but we’ll set that aside for now. They’re sexy, that goes along with the beautiful part. And they’re smart. That’s how they figure out how to get out of those situations they get themselves into. But as a newcomer to the romantic heroine game, there’s one more thing that I’d like to add to the list: flexibility. If you’re going to be a heroine, you have to be able to change course quickly. Make sure your house slippers have rubber soles because you never know when the road will get rocky or the flying carpet you’re on will change its direction. Life may turn out the way you’ve planned—just be ready to change the plan a few times along the way.
We were south of San Diego and headed toward Mexico. Peaches had a few days off after a delivery and wanted to roast on a beach blanket drinking Coronas and listening to Jimmy Buffet. That didn’t appeal to me but visiting Mexico did. I wanted to see the colors
But me? Back to school? I couldn’t do that.
You won’t know if you don’t try,
I said to myself. But where would I go? The thought of Juanita Louis and her one-word French vocabulary of “oui” taking cooking lessons in Paris, France?
Girl, I don’t think so.
But then, I remembered something. Something stashed in the back of my mind beneath balled-up grocery receipts and my grandmother’s pound cake recipe. It was one of those “ruby slippers” moments—the answer was right in front of my face.
One day, late last summer after my painting class at the community college, I waited to hitch a ride back to Paper Moon with Mignon, who had stopped in to see one of her teachers. I had passed the time by reading the flyers on the bulletin board. It had all kinds of stuff on it: ads for roommates (“Alternative lifestyles OK”), apartments (“ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING AND NO PETS,” “Vegans only”), David’s Tattoos and Laundromat, and diet pills, contacts for marijuana for medicinal purposes, piercing studios (“Tongues are our specialty”), and the schedules for the next term. The “Food Services Management Department” announcement was copied onto hot-pink paper. There were courses in restaurant administration, institutional food management, and banquet coordination. A deadline for applications to the culinary arts program was set out in bold, black letters. Mignon tapped me on the shoulder, I picked up my portfolio, and we left.
Now the official-looking words on that bulletin board came back to me: “The Culinary Arts Program is accepting applicants for its eighteen-month program. Applications may be obtained . . .”
Peaches and I left Los Angeles heading south. It was beautiful but I don’t think I saw a damn thing. All I could think about was cooking. Real cooking. And school.
Being a chef was for Jess, it was for Yancey and Wendy. Not for me. The whole idea scared me. Going to school.
Real
school where I would probably be at least a hundred years older than everyone else. Where I would be at least twenty years stupider than everyone else. I talked myself out of the idea as I stared at the road ahead.
Then, Peaches’s voice floated into my consciousness. And I said, “Yeah.” I have no idea what she said.
“Juanita, are you all right? Is something wrong?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m fine. Just daydreaming,” I said.
I imagined a delicate swirl of whipped cream rising above a perfectly cut slice of bourbon sweet potato pecan pie that I had placed in the center of a plain white dessert plate. A plate of perfect little bite-sized somethings tartared in a puff pastry shell, a fairy-sized dollop of mousse on top of each piece. Ah, yes. Horse doovers from Juanita Louis, Chef. You know, that sounded pretty good.
Chapter Three
----
H eroines in romance novels have a few things in common. They’re beautiful, which is probably a good thing. Otherwise the romance part would go out of the window. They are also nineteen years old, but we’ll set that aside for now. They’re sexy, that goes along with the beautiful part. And they’re smart. That’s how they figure out how to get out of those situations they get themselves into. But as a newcomer to the romantic heroine game, there’s one more thing that I’d like to add to the list: flexibility. If you’re going to be a heroine, you have to be able to change course quickly. Make sure your house slippers have rubber soles because you never know when the road will get rocky or the flying carpet you’re on will change its direction. Life may turn out the way you’ve planned—just be ready to change the plan a few times along the way.
We were south of San Diego and headed toward Mexico. Peaches had a few days off after a delivery and wanted to roast on a beach blanket drinking Coronas and listening to Jimmy Buffet. That didn’t appeal to me but visiting Mexico did. I wanted to see the colors
Similar Books
Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly
Paula K. Perrin
The Green Red Green
Red Green
Taking The Heat
SD Hildreth
The Silver Arrow
Ian Todd
Tales of the Flying Mountains
Poul Anderson
The Highlander
Kerrigan Byrne
The Decimation of Mae (The Blue Butterfly)
D H Sidebottom
A Cowboy in Disguise
Victoria Ashe
The Anniversary
Amy Gutman