Kitchen Chaos (9 page)

“I see,” my mother says, squirting out another blob of oil. “And you're doing this for a social studies class? Because
cooking
is an important part of American history?”

“Yes,” I reply. “No. I mean, I don't know.” I start spouting a bunch of things I think Mr. McEnroe would want to hear. “We have to come up with some aspect of immigration that would cut across all
different groups. Some kind of ‘common thread,' our teacher said. This is perfect! And all immigrants carried cooking traditions from back home with them to America. We're going to learn about what foods were brought here by which immigrant groups, about how common things we eat all the time are really from all over the world. We're going to base our project on that idea and make, you know, posters and a report and stuff to go with it.” Actually, we haven't gotten as far as figuring out exactly what we're going to do yet, but she doesn't need to know that. “Maybe we'll make a cookbook or something,” I add, a little lamely.

One thing you should know about my mother is that she doesn't use cookbooks. She learned to cook mostly by watching her own mother, my
lăo lăo
, and then just got better and better. It's like she has some kind of magical ability to know just what combination of ingredients will make something taste exactly the way she wants. There must be a hundred jars of dried herbs and smelly fermented fruits and vegetables in
our cabinets, yet my mother can reach her hand in and find the one she needs without even looking. So it's not exactly surprising that she feels pretty much the same way about cookbooks as she does about ordering takeout.

Holding her glowing wok up for inspection, my mother offers one of her pronouncements. “The history of cooking in the United States—sounds very ambitious for a children's cooking class,” she sniffs. “What kind of experience does the instructor have?”

I've just rinsed off the last bowl, and now I'm making little towers out of the soapsuds floating in the dirty water. “The teacher is a very famous chef,” I explain. “He even has his own cooking show on TV.”

My mother looks unimpressed, which doesn't surprise me. Other than the news and a Chinese soap opera she got addicted to last year when she broke her foot and was stuck in bed, she doesn't watch much TV. I'm the complete opposite, because I'll watch
pretty much anything, even really boring sports like golf with my dad.

“And this
very famous chef
is teaching a cooking class just for children?” my mother asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Well,” I say, demolishing my city of soapsuds, “not exactly.” It's time to channel my inner ox. “It's not actually a children's class. It's an
adult
class that will allow kids. Kids accompanied by an adult. And I was thinking maybe we could take it together.”

At first the next part of the conversation goes exactly as I expected it would. My mother looks at me like I'm crazy, sighs, and says she doesn't need someone else to teach her how to cook. I tell her that I know she's good, but taking the class is really important to me, that we can't take it without her, and can't she just do this one thing that I want?

My mother hangs the wok on its hook and walks back over to the sink, where I'm still watching the tiny soap bubbles pop one by one in the oily dishwater. I
peek up to test the atmosphere. She's staring at me, and I can see her face soften. “Yang Yang,” she says, using my Chinese name, “I have no need to learn to cook these foods. We are Chinese.”

Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my stomach. It lasts only a second or two, but I know right away what it is: a kick from the tiny ox inside me, reminding me to stand my ground.

“Well,” I begin, “you may be Chinese, but I'm both. Chinese and American. You chose to stay here, and you chose to have us here, so you chose for me to be both. And right now I want us to learn about American traditions too.” She doesn't seem to be weakening, so I throw out my last, desperate argument. “Or are you afraid you won't be as good at American cooking as you are at Chinese?”

Nothing in my mom's expression changes except her jaw, which tightens as she makes a tiny clicking sound in her throat. She makes this sound very effectively—and often—to show irritation or to herd
us where she wants us to go. But right now it tells me she's trying to decide whether or not to get really angry. Her inner Taurus the Bull has taken over for the ox, and I'm the one holding the red scarf.

“Don't be ridiculous, Lillian. If I can make bird's nest soup, I'm quite sure I can make a French fry or a hamburger patty.”

I may not be able to tighten my jaw and click as well as she can, but when I put my hand on one hip, I can look pretty fierce. “Okay then, Mama,” I say, “prove it.”

Even a slacker goat like me knows that a bull rarely says no to a challenge. My mother flares her nostrils like the massive hoofed creatures within her. This is it: The class, the project, and my best shot at making friends so far this year all depend on whether my mother decides to charge or hold her ground.

Mama locks eyes with me for another long moment. Then, slowly, the corners of her mouth begin to rise. She's smiling, but there's a glint in her eye that's not entirely friendly. Goat and I have won.

“Fine,” she says, holding out her hand for me to shake. “As you girls would say, it's a deal.”

I'm so happy that I start jumping up and down. Instead of shaking her hand, I throw my arms around my mother's neck, leap up, and wrap my legs around her waist. Just like in a TV show, my father and Katie choose that very moment to enter the kitchen. The sight of my five-foot-three mother holding her five-foot-one daughter must be so ridiculous that it stops them in their tracks. They stare at us for a minute, then turn to each other and exchange a bewildered look. Finally, my father—who does math all day and is a man of few words—clears his throat. “Well,” he says to Katie, handing her a clean teacup from the dish rack before taking one for himself, “looks like they've finished with the dishes.”

Believe it or not, whoever came up with the quote on that poster in the school infirmary wasn't completely clueless. Wednesday night I got almost simultaneous texts after dinner from both Frankie and Lillian: Their moms said yes—both of them. Of course I was relieved that we could take the class, but suddenly, I was the only one whose mom was still holding out—and
my
mom taking the class with us was the entire part two of my original big idea.

The next day, after we'd all registered and paid for the class, I'd pretty much given up hope that my mom would sign up, and I was getting ready to be the latchkey kid of American Cooking 101. But all that imagining and dreaming I did must have paid off, because that night my mom came home looking seriously annoyed. After she put Cole to bed, she told me about how she'd spent the whole afternoon arguing with clients who just wouldn't listen to her and had gotten on her last nerve. Later, when we were eating dinner, the commercial for the class came on again, and just like that, Mom shook her head, put down her fork, and said, “You know what, Lize? I'm going to take that class.” She even booked Cammy, the ninth grader who lives upstairs from us, to babysit for Cole on Saturday afternoons.

That was Thursday. Now it's Saturday and we're supposed to be leaving for class, only Cammy's mom just called to say that Cammy has a fever and won't be able to babysit. She offered to watch Cole herself, but he can be seriously cranky with people he doesn't know, so Mom told her that she should stay home in case Cammy needs her and that we'd figure out something to do with Cole. That “something” turned out to be taking him along with us. I hope the chef likes babies—and that there are safety knobs on the stoves.

“Okay, everybody, let's do this,” my mom says, zipping up the diaper bag. From all the toys, snacks, and extra clothes she's stuffed it with, you'd think we were going away for the weekend instead of a few hours. But that's life with a two-and-a-half-year-old. Mom grabs the stroller and I scoop up Cole, who's waving around his sippy cup and splashing milk all over the apartment.

“I'll take that, mister,” I say, snatching the cup out of Cole's hands and switching it with a box of animal crackers. The guy is a sugar fiend, and I've discovered that the trick to getting him to cooperate is just to keep giving him sweets. My mom's not crazy about
that plan, but this was supposed to be
my
afternoon with her, so there's no way I'm feeling guilty about a few little crackers.

We decide to walk to the cooking studio because it's warm and sunny out today, but Cole whines and fusses the whole way there and my mom and I are feeling anything but “sunny” when we arrive. Frankie and Lillian and their moms are already standing around a big metal table in the middle of the room, which is huge, with fancy-looking steel appliances lining three of the walls. The other wall is all windows and looks right out onto the street. Even though we won't be on TV, I guess we'll kind of be starring in a cooking show of our own, at least for the people passing by on the sidewalk.

Chef Antonio comes to meet us at the door, and all I can say is,
Wow!
He's even better-looking in person, and I can already tell that he's just as friendly in real life. Cole starts howling and struggling to escape his stroller the minute we're inside, but Chef
Antonio's smile doesn't fade as he holds out his hand to me first and then my mom.

“Welcome to my kitchen,” he says in a deep, Spanish-accented voice that sounds so familiar, like he's an old friend instead of a stranger I've only seen on TV. “I'm Antonio, and you must be Liza and Ms. Reynolds.” He waves his hand toward the big table. “Your friends have been telling me all about you.”

“Call me Jackie,” my mom says while trying to get Cole to calm down.

I give Frankie a look that says,
You'd better not have said anything embarrassing.
Frankie's mom—who insists that I call her Theresa, even though it still feels a little strange—looks at us, then at Frankie, and then back at us. She waves at my mom and then whispers something to Frankie with a confused expression on her face. I guess Frankie “forgot” to mention that my mom decided at the last minute to take the class after all. I catch Lillian's eye as her mom is hissing something in her ear too. Looks like my big idea has
morphed into some kind of mother-daughter cooking adventure—probably not what our moms were expecting, but too many is better than not enough!

Next to Dr. Wong is someone I don't recognize, and I notice for the first time that along with Frankie, Lillian, and their moms, there are four other people at the table: two men around my dad's age and a couple who are definitely married (or at least boyfriend and girlfriend) because they're holding hands and looking at each other in that same goofy, dreamy way Frankie stares at Mr. McEnroe. They're all staring at us, of course, wondering what kind of people would bring a wailing baby to a grown-up cooking class.

Chef Antonio squats down in front of Cole's stroller, which is literally rocking and rolling thanks to my brother's nonstop squirming. This is not exactly the first impression I was hoping to make. “And what's your name, little man?” the chef asks him, smiling and holding out his hand as if Cole were a grown-up instead of a bratty toddler. Cole pushes
his hand away and tries even harder to wriggle out of his stroller harness, and Chef Antonio stands back up. He's still smiling, but I bet he wishes Cole would shut up already.

My mom sighs and shoots me an “I told you so” look. She smiles apologetically at the others and turns to Chef Antonio. “I'm sorry,” she says, pushing Cole back into his seat and tightening the straps. “Our babysitter got sick. I'll just walk him around the block a few times, and maybe he'll take a nap. Please get started without me, and Liza will catch me up on what I've missed.”

“Mom—,” I start to say, but before I have a chance to argue, she's wheeled the stroller around and is pushing it out the door, Cole still whining his little head off.

Chef Antonio puts his arm around my shoulder like we're old friends and leads me toward the table where the rest of the class is waiting. “Not to worry, Liza,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice
again. “Your mom will be back before you know it. Come, join your friends and meet some new ones!”

Frankie runs up to us and grabs my hand, pulling me over to the table. “Finally!” she says. “I thought you were going to ditch us!”

“Well,” I say, “it looks like my mom just might have.” Frankie's mom gives me a little hug and looks after the closing door like she wishes she could make a run for it too.

“No way,” Frankie says, bumping Lillian out of the way so I can squeeze in next to her at the table. “I'm sure Cole will chill out soon and she'll be back in a few.”