Cooking up a storm in a teacup
Filed under:
Just for fun
As I was on a roll with my new Pilates class, I thought I’d sign up for a cookery class too. Go me!
So, I booked myself in, checked if I needed to bring anything (I didn't) and waddled along on the night. On arrival, I remembered how awkward I feel in new social situations with people I don’t know - ultimate stress. And like attending Pilates the first time, the classic opener of 'so what are you here for?’ wouldn't cut the mustard. At this point, I’m wondering when I actually would use that opener and why it always pops into my mind as a classic opener. But, I digress. We all settled in and the first class went by quite well, nobody really chatted at cookery classes, it seems we were all here to learn, not make friends. Grand.
By the second class (it was to be a 6 class thing!) it was all sorted and I knew what I was doing; I got there, took my seat and read through the menu handout of what was to be cooked that evening and it included: caramelised onion and leek tart (eugh, not convinced), and focaccia bread (that sounds nice) and a lemon and almond cake for desert (lemon – eugh, I don’t like lemon, almond is nice, though I presume it’s going to be difficult to separate the two). There was also to be risotto, which lightened my mood considerably – I like risotto and more than that, I’d quite like to be able to cook it. In theory, anyway. I’m not overly fond of cooking you understand, so let’s not get carried away here.
The cookery classes took the procedure of; you arrive, you got a handout of what was being cooked and the recipe of how to do it of course (obviously) and you got to taste it. And when I say ‘taste it’ you really only got a morsel, which was fine by me, because it means that if you don’t like it, it’s not hugely obvious when it’s left on the plate for passing around. You also got a glass of wine if you were that way inclined, but I wasn't, to be honest it's not worth it just to have one, when I'm drinking vino I like to enjoy a few glasses, dare I say the full bottle. Not a word to my mother though, or she'll have me signed up to a session with the bowld Sr Consilio quicker than you can recite your name and how many days sober you are.
By the second class (it was to be a 6 class thing!) it was all sorted and I knew what I was doing; I got there, took my seat and read through the menu handout of what was to be cooked that evening and it included: caramelised onion and leek tart (eugh, not convinced), and focaccia bread (that sounds nice) and a lemon and almond cake for desert (lemon – eugh, I don’t like lemon, almond is nice, though I presume it’s going to be difficult to separate the two). There was also to be risotto, which lightened my mood considerably – I like risotto and more than that, I’d quite like to be able to cook it. In theory, anyway. I’m not overly fond of cooking you understand, so let’s not get carried away here.
The cookery classes took the procedure of; you arrive, you got a handout of what was being cooked and the recipe of how to do it of course (obviously) and you got to taste it. And when I say ‘taste it’ you really only got a morsel, which was fine by me, because it means that if you don’t like it, it’s not hugely obvious when it’s left on the plate for passing around. You also got a glass of wine if you were that way inclined, but I wasn't, to be honest it's not worth it just to have one, when I'm drinking vino I like to enjoy a few glasses, dare I say the full bottle. Not a word to my mother though, or she'll have me signed up to a session with the bowld Sr Consilio quicker than you can recite your name and how many days sober you are.
So, yes, back to the class. You also got to ask questions and chat with the teacher/chef type person, as and when was appropriate - all good really. Well I say 'all good', except for a few other people in the class who seemed to have mistaken this cookery course, for a 'get to know all about them class’, and who it seemed just asked questions for the sake of it, and others who rambled on about their own personal cooking experiences and kitchens, and interior designs and family matters. Stuff you probably wouldn’t expect to discuss with your best mate was being aired mid class. I was, to say the least, perplexed.
There was this one girl, who I’m sorry to say it, and I’m not just being a bitch (though at that I do excel), had the greasiest hair, which was semi highlighted and looked like it was well overdue a visit to Peter Marks. Anyway, she had a penchant for asking all the really irritating questions like “why are you using that olive oil instead of the other one”, and “what are the defining differences between a food processor and a blender”, and “how long would that keep in the fridge”, and “could I start making my Christmas dinner today for Christmas 2012?” OK so not the last one, but ALL the other ones and then some. It was so very irritating, and we were only on class 2 of 6, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to keep my temper in check.
So there she was, on a roll, re-informing those who hadn’t heard in last class (maybe on account of the fact that their ears were bleeding) that she was still in between houses so she wasn't able to cook anything, then she piped up with a full run down on what her kitchen design is like and how they spent 10 months getting a plan together (bit of time management wouldn't have gone astray there I thought) and that she now realised the plan hadn't got any of the important stuff in it - like a counter, which was to be made out of travertine which has holes all over it ('so fu**ing what!', I mused), which meant she didn’t know how she was going to roll out her pastry, “and then you wouldn't believe what my husband insisted on ordering” she chirped (please tell me it's a series of home hair treatments from John Frieda???, I tried to push the thoughts into her head without me having to verbalise them) “..... a pizza stone!! and do you know how many times we've made pizzas?? Never, not once, so I said we could get the pizza stone on the condition ..." oh please make her stop. And then, as if answering my prayers (or perhaps it was the look of Beelzebub in my eyes) the teacher interrupted with, "can I just stop you there while I explain what I'm doing with the foccacia" and I'm sure inside the teacher's head she was saying 'if that girl behind you doesn't plant her stiletto heel in your head I'll get you with my pallet knife', but I guess I could have just been reading into it. I was morto for John Frieda girl, I glanced over to see if she was all 'shamer' from being told to shut up, but no, not a bit of it, in fact she cut in with "I have a bread maker, can it be done in that teacher?'
Then all of a sudden, and as if out of nowhere - SLAP - my shoe flew off my foot and hit her head. Shocking really.
So there she was, on a roll, re-informing those who hadn’t heard in last class (maybe on account of the fact that their ears were bleeding) that she was still in between houses so she wasn't able to cook anything, then she piped up with a full run down on what her kitchen design is like and how they spent 10 months getting a plan together (bit of time management wouldn't have gone astray there I thought) and that she now realised the plan hadn't got any of the important stuff in it - like a counter, which was to be made out of travertine which has holes all over it ('so fu**ing what!', I mused), which meant she didn’t know how she was going to roll out her pastry, “and then you wouldn't believe what my husband insisted on ordering” she chirped (please tell me it's a series of home hair treatments from John Frieda???, I tried to push the thoughts into her head without me having to verbalise them) “..... a pizza stone!! and do you know how many times we've made pizzas?? Never, not once, so I said we could get the pizza stone on the condition ..." oh please make her stop. And then, as if answering my prayers (or perhaps it was the look of Beelzebub in my eyes) the teacher interrupted with, "can I just stop you there while I explain what I'm doing with the foccacia" and I'm sure inside the teacher's head she was saying 'if that girl behind you doesn't plant her stiletto heel in your head I'll get you with my pallet knife', but I guess I could have just been reading into it. I was morto for John Frieda girl, I glanced over to see if she was all 'shamer' from being told to shut up, but no, not a bit of it, in fact she cut in with "I have a bread maker, can it be done in that teacher?'
Then all of a sudden, and as if out of nowhere - SLAP - my shoe flew off my foot and hit her head. Shocking really.
