The Kitchen Counter Cooking School (11 page)

“Knives should never go in the dishwasher,” they said in unison. “Ever.”

“One more thing to remember: Knives are like dogs. They need occasional grooming. Get them sharpened at least once a year. Most cookware or cutlery stores will either offer this service or can tell you where to take them. It will set you back a few bucks per knife, but it's so worth it,” I said.

“But doesn't this thing,” asked Dri, holding up a honing steel, “sharpen your knife? Can't you do that at home?”

Lisa jumped in. “No, this is called a steel. When you run a blade across this, it's more like a fine-tuning by taking away bits of metal that collect on the edge. It keeps it straighter. But the metal should be a little bit magnetic to work and a lot of the steels aren't magnetized. So they're just for the finishing touch, really.” It's the difference between brushing your dog and having it professionally groomed.

With that, we got down to business. We distributed thick cutting boards and settled a wet paper towel under each to keep it from slipping, a trick I learned from the French chefs. Then Lisa and I made sure each person had a proper chef's knife.

“Proper cutting technique involves sticks and cubes. That's about it.” I grabbed a zucchini from the table. I cut it in half lengthwise and then cut each half into four vertical strips. “Remember that ad that said a Ronco-something-or-other could make julienne fries and you wondered what they were? Well, they're sticks. That's how you do it.” Next, I took three sticks and cut them into cubes. “This is diced. The thinner the stick, the smaller the dice.”

I diced another four sticks. “Notice that I'm not chopping down like a guillotine. Instead, I'm starting with the tip of the knife on the cutting board and then bringing the blade down. It should feel like a rocking motion.”

Next, a stalk of celery. “It's always the same,” I said, slicing it into two vertically. Then I diced it. “Always curl your fingers under to avoid cutting them. Then use the flat of your knuckles like a guide for the blade. If you get into that habit, you'll cut yourself a lot less often.”

With a grunt, Lisa banged a five-gallon bucket containing thirty pounds of zucchini onto the table. The group stood back and stared in disbelief.

“Uh, that's a lot of zucchini,” Jodi observed. “What do you want us to do with that?”

“I want you to practice,” I said. “A lot of practice. So let's go.”

Each person grabbed a zucchini and made her first tentative cuts. After a bit of chatter, the room settled into an air of quiet concentration. I saw Trish struggling to get a grip on her knife and went over to her. “Is everything okay?”

She said quietly, “I cut myself really bad when I was eight years old and so I have always been afraid of the blade. I think that's why I have always felt so unsure with a knife.”

I placed the chef's knife back in her hand and held it as she made her first cuts. I could tell it was hard for her. “You know, years ago I badly cut one of my fingers trying to saw through a frozen bagel. See my scar?” I held out my finger. “I completely understand. But if you hold your knife back and keep your fingers out of the way, you're going to be fine.” She nodded and grabbed a zucchini. I watched her deliberately slice it and then slowly carve sticks from one of the halves. When she diced her first batch, she looked relieved.

By her second zucchini, Trish moved more quickly. Soon, the regular thump-thump of knives filled the room like a healthy heartbeat.

“After a while it gets so much easier,” Shannon said as I came around her side of the table to collect some of her diced vegetables. “I feel like I have more control over the knife.”

With that, the mood shifted into one of cordial focus. The women chatted sporadically yet kept their eyes on their cutting boards. Halfway through her final zucchini, Jodi insisted that everyone look at the perfection of her dice. “I can't believe that I am doing this. People, I want you to know that I have never so much as peeled an apple in my life.”

Within a half hour, the pile of zucchini disappeared, having been diced and then swept away into a massive thirty-two-quart pot on the six-burner stove. Then we handed each person two large yellow onions.

“When you cut an onion the classic way, it's easier, faster, and you cry less. But it also impresses people,” I said. “First, cut the onion in half across the root so that a portion of the root stays intact on both pieces,” I said. “If you cut it correctly, you should see
le cœur d'un oignon,
or the heart of the onion. It looks like a Georgia O'Keeffe painting. It's usually easier to peel onions after they've been cut.” I pulled the papery skin away. “Now cut a vertical slit down the middle, but don't cut through the root. Make two more slits on either side.” I picked it up. “It should look a little like a fan if you pick it up and spread the slits open. Now just slice it across at the end, the way you might normally slice an onion,” and the cubes of onions tumbled onto the cutting board.

“Cool!” Sabra said. The group looked impressed. A few even golfclapped.

Sabra, a quick study with a knife, tackled an onion first. I coached her on keeping her neon-green fingernails tucked back. “Hey, I'm totally getting this!” Sabra yelled to everyone victoriously, showing off her chopped onion. “I'm actually
good
with a knife! Who knew? This is
sooo
cool.”

I watched Donna quietly study her onion at the corner of the table. She bought her vegetables frozen and precut to avoid having to chop in front of her husband, who mocked her. I walked around the table and picked up a bit of her chopped onion. “This looks great; perfect, actually.” She flashed a quick, proud smile. “Nice job on your grip, too.”

Most people got it. Terri struggled and reverted back to a modified choke hold; she made a clumsy knife wielder.

The nutty smell of sautéing zucchini drifted toward the worktable. Months earlier, Lisa had traveled to the south of Italy, where she had a remarkable pasta dish at a donkey farm. She went into the kitchen to pry the recipe from the woman who had cooked it, a professor of ancient studies at the university in Palermo. The woman spoke no English. Lisa's Italian is limited to what she refers to as “Tarzan Italian.” The discussion went something along the lines of “Me want recipe. You give recipe?”

Eventually, she learned that the dish consisted of zucchini slow-cooked in olive oil, then paired with al dente pasta and finished with a lot of salt and pepper. As an extra bonus for that night, Lisa caramelized the chopped onions and added them to the zucchini. At the end of class, we handed out takeout boxes of the Italian-inspired zucchini pasta. Everyone seemed enthused and the volunteers left in a group, chattering excitedly.

We had reached the end of the first official cooking class, and it had gone without major slip-ups. We'd both been on our feet for at least six straight hours by the end of it, and an hour of cleanup remained. I searched one of the fridges marked with a “For Catering Use ONLY!” Post-it and dug out a bottle of pinot grigio. “You want some?” I asked Lisa. We feared breaking one of the glasses in the catering inventory, marked with a Post-it screaming, “Do NOT use any of the wineglasses except for DINNERS!” So we found a couple of small water glasses and clinked. “Do you think any of it sunk in?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “We'll find out.”

It was time to wrap up. We divvied up the tasks. I pulled out the rolling mop and bucket. She resigned herself to the dish-cleaning area in the back. As part of my first job at age sixteen, I often helped mop the restaurant floors at night. Just as I started to sink into the memory, I noticed something on a side counter. Sabra had left behind her knife block set. I texted her.

“I won't be needing them,” Sabra responded.

I debated what that meant. Was she not coming back to the class next week?

The next day, Sabra sent another text: “So excited! Got new chef's knife! Full tang, good steel, great feel for $45! See you Monday!”

 

 

 

 

3 tablespoons olive oil
3 pounds zucchini, chopped into
-inch dice
6 ounces dried whole wheat pasta, such as penne
Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 cup caramelized onions (optional) (See note below.)

In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the zucchini and toss to coat evenly. Stir frequently over medium heat. Depending on your pan, the heat level, and the size of the dice, it should take 12 to 25 minutes until the zucchini browns and starts to fall apart.

Meanwhile, add the pasta to boiling salted water. Cook 2 minutes less than the package instructs. Before draining,
carefully
scoop out 3 cups of the hot pasta water. Add 1 cup to the browned zucchini. Bring to a soft boil, adjusting the heat if necessary, stirring to scrape up any browned bits. Add another half cup of water and repeat the process until the zucchini takes on a thick, almost creamy consistency.