Cooking Class

My French isn’t very good. In fact, I can’t speak, read, or understand it, but I love French cooking. So when a new shop opened, less then a quarter-mile from my apartment, I signed up for the complimentary cooking class at La Souris Affamee, with the white tablecloths.

I sat at a workstation with handsome Claude, who used a fake accent when asking my name.

“Esme,” I lied. I wanted to be fake French, too.

The chef got down to the business of explaining French cooking. I heard blah blah blah and inched closer to Claude, but his full attention was on the chef using instruments that looked as if they could dissect a buffalo in two seconds. Knives like Samurai swords, so shiny you could see your reflection in them.

The meat was already out of its original casings, sliced and diced. We browned it in peanut oil and butter. Since the chef used only French words for each of the ingredients, I copied whatever Claude did. Finally, we tossed the meat into a deep pot and added water, tomatoes, red peppers, cream, and lots of seasonings.

While our creations simmered, the cooking room smelled bodacious. My empty stomach growled in anticipation of slurping up my French concoction.

Finally, when chef said, “Bon appetite,” we ladled our steaming hot soup into white bowls. Wine was served, along with bread and brie cheese. I dug into my Souris dans ma Soupe like a hungry animal. I admit - I pigged it down. It was so ooh la la!

Since I forgot how to pronounce it, I asked Claude to translate the name of the soup.

“It’s Mouse in my Soup. They’re flown in special from France.”

Sacre bleu! Gulping and gagging, I asked if they were gray, brown, or white ones.

Word Count: 300