The Cherry Blossom Tree

Cherry Chapter Ten

“Oh, ma chérie,” Jean Claude tsked, shaking his head.  “I gave simple instructions.  Lightly brown the beef.  Never did I say scorch it until it was black, or set it alight.”

He broke off into French again while giving me a disparaging glare, and the more he said, the angrier I got.  Unbeknownst to him I’d been taking French lessons since I was six and could speak it almost as fluently as he could.  Currently, he was bemoaning the existence of pretty girls who had no brains.

“I can understand you perfectly well,” I interrupted heatedly, clamping my arms across my chest.  He appeared doubtful until I continued.  “I have plenty of brains, I’ll have you know.  Just because I can’t cook beef like Martha Stewart does not mean I’m stupid.  It just means I’m not destined to be a housewife which is fine by me.”

“Jean Claude,” Mom interrupted, saving me before the situation escalated any further.  “I think my daughter and I will work as a pair from here on out.”

She started tugging me over to her station across the room while Jean Claude regarded both of us with a hint of dismay.  Earlier in the lesson Mom had scratched Jean Claude’s granite counter with a knife when she’d forgotten to lay a chopping board down.  Then she’d burnt herself while browning her beef.

Annabel had happily taken up the role of teacher’s pet as soon as we’d walked in the door and she’d discovered our instructor was tall, French, and under the age of forty.  She’d gone from her usual brazen self to demure in a heartbeat and had monopolised Jean Claude since the beginning of the lesson, calling him over for every little thing.  She’d even demanded he whisper each ingredient to her in native French.  Because every woman just swooned over a man translating carrot to carrrottttttte.

“Suck up,” I whispered as Mom dragged me past Annabel.

“Jealousy is an ugly trait, Kitty Kat,” Annabel said with exaggerated innocence, inspecting the manicure she’d given herself the previous day.  Then she grinned deviously at me when she was sure Jean Claude wasn’t listening.

I could hear the twitters of the twelve other people in the room, all annoyed their precious cooking time had been interrupted by the likes of me.  Annabel and I were the youngest in the class by at least ten years.  The other woman exuded a confidence in the kitchen I just knew I’d never have, and it prompted me to think back on the flyer Mom had brought home with her last week.

Apparently when the advert boasted the message ‘Appropriate for all ages’, it meant all ages who could already cook and knew how not to set a house on fire.  The lesson seemed to drag on to infinity, and once we were finally done with our finished products in front of us, I nearly broke out into a chorus of hallelujahs.

The only thing left was the taste test.  Both the person who prepared the dish and Jean Claude were permitted to sample.  I graciously passed up the opportunity, as did Mom.  I glanced warily at the plate in front of us.  It actually looked like gourmet pig food.  Blackened, crunchy, gourmet pig food. 

Jean Claude made the rounds, complementing everyone on their hard effort and stellar results.  He studiously avoided our bench in the back, which was fine by me.  Even Mom let out a tiny sigh of relief when he bypassed us to taste Annabel’s instead.  Of course hers looked just about perfect, but that would be because Jean Claude had practically cooked it himself while Annabel praised his godlike talents in the kitchen.