The Icing on the Cake (7 page)

“And so much tastier,” I add. “Do you even know how to make the other kind?”

“Of course I do,” Frankie says (she's not big on admitting she doesn't know how to do things). She opens a cabinet full of appliances and reaches way into the back, shoving aside an endless supply of blenders, pasta makers, food processors, and who knows what else. After loud crashing and serious tugging, she finally digs out an ancient air-popper and slams it down on the counter. “Ta-da!”

“Was that one of your parents' wedding presents?” I ask.

“Engagement, actually,” Frankie says, blowing some dust off the lid. “But it still works—we used
it in December to make popcorn garlands for our Christmas tree.”

I look at Lillian, hoping she'll keep pushing the microwave popcorn. Instead she hands the jar back to Frankie and shrugs. Lillian is not big on conflict.

“Fine,” I say, opening the fridge. “Anything is edible when it's smothered in butter.”

Frankie pours the kernels into the machine and turns it on. “I bet it's good without butter too,” she says. Clearly, someone has kidnapped my oldest friend and replaced her with a health-food alien.

Luckily for us—but not for the Caputos' air popper—we don't have to find out. As the popper heats up, the part that holds the kernels starts to smoke. “Here it comes,” Frankie says, but nothing pops. A few sparks fly into the shoot where the popcorn is supposed to come pouring out, and the air smells like melting plastic. Lillian yanks the plug out of the wall and opens a window. We definitely don't need Mr. Caputo's crew from the firehouse
coming down to rescue us from an exploding popcorn maker.

I pick up the box of microwave popcorn. “Can we make this kind now, Franks?”

“Fine,” Frankie sighs. “Whatever.”

I heat up a bag of popcorn and Lillian takes a big bowl out of the dish rack. We watch the bag magically expand as the kernels pop, and when the timer goes off I pull the top open extra carefully to avoid getting a face full of steam. The salty-buttery-popcorn-y smell is amazing.

“Yum,” says Lillian, grabbing a handful even before I've finished pouring it into the bowl.

I shake the last few kernels left in the bag directly into my mouth. “Sooo yummy.”

Frankie takes a deep breath. “I'm full just from the smell. You guys can split it.”

“You really do sound like Katie,” I say. “No offense, Lillian.”

“I wish I had a sister like Katie,” Frankie says,
narrowing her eyes at Nicky and his friends, who are screaming fart jokes at each other in the backyard. “She's so smart and mature. And gorgeous. And, I don't know . . . confident.”

“And stuck up and mean,” Lillian says, scooping up more popcorn. “Trust me, you wouldn't want to live with her.”

“I'd trade my disgusting brothers for her in a minute,” Frankie says, slamming the window shut. “If I hear Nicky say the word ‘butt' one more time I'm going to strangle him.”

I decide it's time to change the subject and pick up the “Spring Clubs and Teams” flyer Frankie had been reading. The list is pretty much the usual: softball, baseball, track, French club, service club, debate team . . . “Is there anything good on here, Franks? You were studying it like there's going to be a quiz.”

“I don't know,” Frankie says with a shrug. “Maybe.” She turns to Lillian. “Your sister runs track in the spring, right?”

Lillian rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh. And swimming in the winter, and soccer in the fall . . .”

I reach for the popcorn bowl, which is already half empty. “Why do you care, Frankie? Aren't you always ranting about The Goons being dumb jocks?”

“Those two are total dimwits,” Frankie says, “but I never said
all
athletes were dumb. Katie's a major genius, isn't she?”

Lillian shoves the bowl of popcorn toward Frankie. “You know what's genius? This popcorn. Have some, Frankie. Please!”

Frankie stares at the popcorn for a few seconds, and then lets out a big sigh. “Okay, fine. I can't stand it anymore. The smell is just too amazing.” She grabs a handful and shovels it into her mouth. “
Mmmm
, so good,” Frankie says, little pieces of corn flying everywhere. To my relief, she actually reaches for another flat, pancaked bag and throws it into the microwave to fluff. “We are definitely going to need more of this!”

We battle our way to cooking class in the midst of what they call a nor'easter. I'm not sure what atmospheric forces are smashing into each other to create this storm, but it's nasty. Cold, sideways-shooting rain, inside-out umbrellas, major winds, and absolutely no way to see even right in front of you as you slosh toward your destination. When I looked out the window this morning, I seriously thought about asking my mom if we could skip Chef Antonio's class
this week, but then I remembered how toasty and welcoming it would be when we got there.

And I'm sure it will be, just as soon as I stop dripping all over everything, and we've un-mummified Cole from his slippery layers of rain gear. It looks like everyone else is just as soaked as we are—there are puddles all over the shiny floor, and when Frankie comes in, her thick hair is drenched and totally matted against her head. She's so pretty that it doesn't matter, but I see her trying to dry and fluff it out, looking nervously over at Tristan who is talking to Errol and Henry. They look damp, too, but somehow Tristan manages to maintain his cuteness. Frankie notices this bonus feature of Tristan's too—I can tell.

Of course, Chef, Angelica, and Javier are totally dry and perky as ever (well, Chef and Angelica, anyway). Even though I know they don't live in the studio, it sort of seems like their natural habitat. Chef is throwing thick red towels all over the floor and handing one to each of us as we walk in. My mom
is particularly soaked, because she couldn't hold an umbrella and push Cole's stroller at the same time, and Chef sort of ruffles her hair as she attempts to dry it. I have to admit, it's kind of a weird move, but I decide to ignore it—and Lillian, who I catch giving Frankie a look. They're just trying to make a big deal out of nothing. When Chef does nice things for their moms, they don't call it flirting.

When we're as dry as we're going to get for the moment, Angelica whisks off my soggy brother to another part of the studio to dance around and sing their Spanish songs. Chef tosses the last of the soggy towels in a big basket and does his clapping thing to get our attention.

“
Amigos!
Here we are.
Un poco húmeda
—a little bit damp—but we are all together, cozy and warm. Has there ever been a better day to bake some comforting pies?”

He looks around the room, trying to pump us all up. The Newlyweds do seem psyched, but then again,
they always do. And Errol and Henry are nodding. The rest of us aren't quite dry and ready enough to get too excited just yet. But Chef keeps going.

“Pies are
fantástico
, no? Such clever little pockets. They were created by very smart people long ago—as far back as the Greeks. Crust,
mis amigos
, was like the container, or the basket, for the filling, which could be anything they had, anything they needed to use or store or preserve for their journeys. I don't want to freak anybody out, as my son likes to say” (one look over at Javi and I can see that he's super embarrassed. Lillian notices too—I think she might even be blushing for him), “but pies were actually called little ‘coffins' because they were like pastry boxes to hold meat and other food before it spoiled!”

Tristan makes a face. Clearly he's not used to Chef's . . . unique . . . sense of humor yet.

“But don't worry!” Chef Antonio assures us, catching Tristan's eye. “Our pies will be bursting with
life.
Yo prometo
—I promise. No coffins in this cooking studio!”

I imagine myself back in ancient Greece, jostling along on horseback, reaching for my little pastry coffin . . . No wonder Chef has such a great show, he definitely knows how to “paint a picture with his words” as my English teacher Ms. Bissessar always says.

“So,
señoras
,
señoritas
,
y señors
, we are going to have some fun today. I want to shake things up a little, so bear with me,
por favor
. So many people are scared of pie crust, there is so much anxiety about making it. Never fear! I will help you make a flaky and tasty crust, but it cannot be hurried. And I want us to make lots of delicious options so we can all experience
las vastas
possibilities pies offer!

Chef Antonio pauses, like an actor in a play, giving us a minute to fully absorb his deep excitement over pie making. I look over at my mom, who's smiling at Chef the way she does at Cole
when he does something particularly adorable. I have to admit that Chef's obvious passion for food, and how he clearly wants us to feel it too, is pretty charming.

He takes a deep breath. “And so, we are going to split up into a few groups—get out of our ruts, yes?—and each make a different kind of pie. And to help me, I have a special guest expert today—our very own Jacqueline!”

Wait. Hold up. Chef may be charming, but our very own
who
? Jacqueline? As in,
my
mom?

Everyone looks at Mom, smiling and clapping.

Shyly, she stands up. “Hello, hello,” she says, waving them off. “I am not an expert. But my granny taught me some killer Southern pies, and Chef asked me to share one with you all—or ‘y'all,' as Granny would say.”

OMG, my mom is doing stand-up. I try to stare her down—why didn't she tell me she was going be Chef's “special guest” today?—but I can't get her
attention. Instead, she just keeps looking at Chef, shaking her head, and grinning.

Chef Antonio is practically bouncing with excitement now. “Okay,
amigos
?
Bueno.
Let us begin because we have much to do and never ever enough time. We are all going to make crust together, and it will be, as I said,
perfecto
. Then, this table over here”—he waves at one of the cooking stations—“will make a filled pie.” He points to another one. “This table over here will make a two-crust apple pie, and the last table will start from scratch and make a graham-cracker crust with a key-lime filling. When we are all finished, my hope is that you will see that pie crust is nothing to be afraid of, and making it is as easy as . . . you know it . . . PIE!”

Everyone laughs, of course. Everyone except the “special guest's” daughter, a.k.a. me.

“So,
todo el mundo
—everyone—please choose your table so we may begin!”

Some people seem really sure about what kind of
pie they want to make. I stay in my seat, arms crossed, waiting to see what my mom thinks she's doing. Aren't we supposed to be taking this class together?

*  *  *

Errol and Henry head immediately to the one-crust pie, which is where Mom is standing. She smiles and laughs at something one of them says about Southern ladies and their pie. If I were in a better mood, I would ask her which of Granny Fran's mouthwatering pies we're talking about, but I'm not.

Tristan looks at his uncle, shrugs, and then heads over to the graham-cracker table. Following Tristan like a puppy, Frankie immediately ditches her mom, who joins mine, joking that the fewer crusts for her to ruin the better.

Dr. Wong and Lillian head to the apple-pie table with the Newlyweds. I can tell Lillian is looking around to see where Javier will go, but he's busy over at a work table cutting up butter that's been chilling in a bowl of ice for Chef Antonio. Lillian
kind of trails along behind her mother, sneaking peeks at Javi every couple of seconds. If he did actually decide to choose a table right now, would she actually desert her mom and follow him? I can picture Dr. Wong's reaction to that, and it definitely wouldn't make Lillian feel less embarrassed!

I can feel Frankie's eyes boring a hole in my back, trying to get me to join her and Tristan at the graham-cracker table for moral support. I don't feel like watching her “accidentally” spill flour on his shirt or offer to show him how to properly demolish a graham cracker, so I decide to go to Mom's table after all.

“
Sí, sí, sí. Bueno.
Everybody all set?” Chef asks, taking a quick scan of the room. He spies Javier, who seems to be finished with the butter and is now just standing around wadding up towels. “No, not quite. Javi, why don't you join us?” Javier's always sort of hovering, like he can't decide whether to jump in or sneak away. He's caught now, though, so he shuffles over to the graham-cracker crew.

“The key to pie crust,
amigos
, is not to overdo it, not to overhandle it,” Chef tells us. “If you do, it will be tough—leathery and chewy instead of light, feathery, and delicious! It's all about activating the gluten in the flour . . .” Chef Antonio looks around to see if we're all still paying attention. Most of the adults are, but Javier and Tristan both look pretty bored.