Crabby

Some of the ladies, at the beginning of the class

A couple of Sundays ago I took a cooking class. Thank you to Charlie's parents, who were understanding when I disappeared for most of a day while they were visiting. And thank you to Charlie's employer, who sponsors semi-regular "wives event" activities. For a few hours, we are distracted from the fact that our husbands work ceaselessly. But I digress!

The class turned out to be incredibly helpful. The theme was dungeness crab and how to cook it. We'd spend all day cooking and end with a full meal prepared ourselves. The chef running my half of the class was George, a worldly travelled and classically french-trained chef, and he quite obviously had no idea how to relax and teach at the same time. He started out stiff as a board. I tried to be low-key with my enthusiasm, but when you are the only person who comes to the class with your *own apron* then you kind of stand out as a dork. I asked him a few questions, he kind of brushed me off. Irritated, I shucked crabs obediently and grumbled.

Then all of the ladies started drinking wine. And goofing off, and chatting, and doing all of the things that women do at these wife events. They had fun! It was then that I realized that George wasn't just stiff, he was crabby. Hardly anyone was paying any attention to him, and he was trying to teach a class. I really think he was used to being The Teacher, not an entertainer/cook/teacher to a group of women looking to have a good time. The (rather large) kitchen and open dining room area sounded like a raging cocktail party. Luckily he loosened up right around the time that I was flipping crepes. Suddenly he was a totally different guy, laughing and joking and flirting with all of the tipsy women. Later in the afternoon, he told me that he finally had figured out that it was mostly a social gathering, so he just changed his attitude and enjoyed himself and cooked.

The chef's secret: all restaurants get their crab from a can, unless you actually see the crab whole in front of you. And it tastes just as good!

And he taught me! I was on that man like a barnacle, and he streamed information about regional spice palates, how to match a fat with your locale, how to mince a shallot into nothingness, and that "yes, it's ok just leave that chowder with full cream in it at a rolling boil and it will reduce beautifully." I am a pretty aggressive stirrer of pots, so leaving something to just go was a bit alien. By this point, most of the women had moved into the dining room and it was just like having a dinner party at my house except I had chefs there. His assistant (who had been teaching the other half of the class in a separate kitchen) joined up and brought over the food they had made and we had the best time. Maggi and I helped them plate the entire meal. George pulled one awesome "I am the chef and I am working and you are working for me" moment where he forgot he was teaching and gave me a hard time about how I was doing a garnish on the soup. I laughed out loud and just told him to show me how to do it. And damned if I don't know how to do a PERFECT garnish to a crab chowder now.

George and I making some roux

I think I had two spoonfulls of soup and perhaps one crab cake while standing in the kitchen. I didn't even sit down at a table, and that was fine by me. Like most of my cooking, I didn't care about eating. I like the making far more. I was busy soaking up all of the little things you never learn from reading cookbooks. People probably thought I was being a little teacher's pet, but this was the first opportunity I've ever had to cook with a professional. I couldn't waste a moment!

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Chicken update: Marge and Gladys now have full run just like Penelope. I let them out in the morning, and at dusk they go back into the coop like obedient little girls. The three of them are still very skittish (Penelope because I think she's a bit traumatized, the babies because they don't know me) but hopefully that will mellow in time.