The redbuds were blooming in Asheville when I was there last week to teach, their snaky branches covered with fuscia blossoms, simply gorgeous. I love Asheville for its redbuds, but also for the dear friends I’ve made over the course of teaching classes there for nearly a decade. Asheville is special, one of those esthetic “hot pot” cities like Portland (Oregon) or Austin, filled with a sense of history and entrepreneurial energy where artists, food geniuses, brainy folks of all stripes live and thrive.
I’ve got a cousin near Asheville whose in laws are farmers so I send my list of ingredients before I arrive, and she checks off what they can supply. Then, I check with my host, Barbra Love, who overturns the earth to find things like lardo, rabbit, home-cured bacon, lamb neck. We spend two days hunting and gathering, and then the fun begins as students arrive.
I’d planned an ambitious menu for these classes because half the students were returnees and I knew they’d be up for challenges. Included was couscous made the traditional way, where the grain is repeatedly rolled and steamed until it is fluffy, a perfect accompaniment to its traditional lamb and vegetable soup. There were Happy Toasts, lardo and chicken livers set on toasted bread with a gorgeous caper sauce poured overall, a recipe from Miss Lunch in Paris, that is destined for my new book Plat du Jour. And there were simple dishes like Chocolate Mousse (not just ANY chocolate mousse of course), and Impressionist Vegetables, direct from the pages of French Grill.
As everyone cooks, I supervise, adjusting fingers on knife handles, urging good posture, correcting a cut that is too large or too small, prodding and poking to check textures and cooking times. We do tastings and sippings, a short field trip, a lot of discussion. In short, I try to pack as much as I can into three days.
This time we had a little accident, one I will recount time and time again I’m sure, in response to the inevitable question “What is the worst/funniest thing that has ever happened in a class?”
This was both. We were steaming couscous in a bamboo steamer after it had been carefully rubbed with butter and salted water two separate times. When the timer rang to remove it I stepped in, because the operation is delicate, involving steam and towels. I made sure everyone was standing back so I could pivot and set the steamer on the work surface behind me. Hands on the edges of the steamer, I pulled up, and the steamer bottom separated from the edges and fell down, down, down into the boiling water. Along with the couscous.
I am embarrassed to say that I let out an expletive, something I try not to do in a cooking class. But there it was, all that gorgeous couscous, in the water. Then we sprang into action and scooped as much of the couscous out of the water as we could. Some we decided to re-steam; the rest we kept hot. I was dying inside. I’d been so excited to teach the traditional way to prepare couscous, so thrilled to have them taste its fluffy buttery-ness.
The class proceeded, everyone laughing and chopping, sautéing and stirring. Only I was crumpled, hoping that the couscous would at least be edible.
The appetizers of grilled guacamole and melted red pepper tart were perfect. Then, there was the couscous moment of truth. The re-steamed couscous was a gloppy mess; that which had fallen in the water looked fine. So, we rubbed more butter into it and served it with the soup. Everyone loved it, and they weren’t just being polite.
The moral of the story? Don’t use a bamboo steamer for couscous, and if you do have to improvise, don’t re-steam anything. Just proceed as if all is normal, serve it all up, and you’ll have a great story to tell!
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