White Jacket Required (3 page)

Add the dry ingredients alternately with the milk to the butter/sugar mixture and mix until smooth.

Scoop batter into the greased cake pan and bake until light, springy, and golden, about 25 minutes. Transfer to a cake rack to cool for 5 minutes, then invert cake onto a rack to cool completely.

Frost the cake with chocolate buttercream and top with rainbow sprinkles.

Chocolate-Buttercream Frosting

1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature

3 cups powdered sugar

Pinch of sea salt

2 teaspoons vanilla

3 tablespoons cocoa powder

2 tablespoons milk

In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream together the butter, powdered sugar, salt, and vanilla for 5 minutes on high speed. Add the cocoa powder and milk and keep beating for another 8–10 minutes until very light, thick, and fluffy.

2
MAKE IT HAPPEN

W
HEN I FINISHED COLLEGE AND MY SUMMER IN PARIS
came to an end, I moved in with my parents in Tampa to figure out what to do next. It felt odd to be completely away from papers and exams once and for all, and I found myself missing school more than anticipated. I was at loose ends without the structure that college had provided. Although I was happy to finally be living in the same city as Rob, my boyfriend of two years, I somehow felt more alone than I had in a long time.

Rob and I had met in an elevator (of all places) the summer before my senior year of college and had maintained a long-distance relationship ever since. He was eight years older than I was, and although we were polar opposites in just about every way, we always managed to have a great time together. Moving back home not only meant living three miles from him, but also sharing a bathroom once again with my teenage brother, John, my only sibling. John and I had our fair share of differences (often resulting in screaming battles), but I was excited to be there for him as he made his way through high school.

At my parents' house, I spent my days on
Monster.com
looking for jobs. The initial excitement of the hunt gave way to frustration, and after scouring job listings for weeks to no avail (except for one interview for a writing position offering to pay me $6 an hour), I felt ready to give up. I was working part-time again at Anthropologie, a popular women's clothing and home store where I had worked for a month before heading to Paris, so at least I was bringing in a little income. But I failed to be mentally stimulated after folding clothes all day.

One August evening, I sought the wisdom and advice of my mother. I was helping her chop vegetables for her famous spaghetti sauce, a dish I almost always requested whenever I was at home.

I was quiet and distant as I diced the carrots and celery, easing them off the edge of the granite counter and into a metal bowl.

My mom glanced over at me. “Jenny, what is it that you really love to do?” she asked.

I ate a carrot. “Well, obviously write . . . and eat. I just don't know how to combine those two and actually make a career out of them.”

My mom smiled. “Do you know how lucky you are, though? While so many college graduates have no idea what it is they really want to do, you know exactly! Now all you have to do is make it happen!”

Make it happen. As if anything was that easy. It turns out no one wants to hire a recent graduate with zero experience. I knew how lucky I was to have my parents be able to support me while I hunted for a job, but I also knew that their compassion would only extend so far.

“What if . . . I went to culinary school?” I asked, turning my face back toward the vegetables, not believing it was my voice that actually posed the question out loud. Since discussing it with my parents a few years prior, I hadn't brought it up, and I wasn't really sure how they would react. I also still didn't know much about culinary school, other than that Julia Child did it, and that it was expensive. It had always seemed more reasonable to go to graduate school and get my master's degree, but I'd had a horrible experience with the GRE that past spring and had thrown out my practice book in protest.

“What if? Is that what you really want to do?” my mom asked as she continued to stir the sauce on the stove.

“I know that I want more education and that I love to cook. If I went, it would give me the authority to
really
write about food because then I would really know my subject.” I was excited now at the thought. Visions of cupcakes and croissants floated through my head, as did cute white aprons and amazing dinners.

“Well, look into it then. You know though that your dad and I can't support any further education that you take on. If you want to do this, you need to figure out all the details, and I'm sure it's pretty expensive.”

As the spaghetti sauce simmered in the pot, so did the ideas in my head. I knew there was a Cordon Bleu school about an hour away, in Orlando, but I didn't know a thing about it. If I went, where would I live? What would I do for work? I decided to sleep on it and do some Internet research in the morning. Lots of people went to culinary school, and I always did like a challenge.

My Mother's Spaghetti Sauce

serves 6–8

Rumor has it that my mother came by this spaghetti sauce recipe from a certain old boyfriend, but my dad won't speak of that. Anyway, it's a family favorite. Try to make it a day or so ahead of time to allow the flavors to blend. Should there be any leftovers, the sauce freezes beautifully.

Chopped vegetables: mushrooms, onions, green pepper, red pepper

1½ tablespoons olive oil

1½ pounds ground beef

3 hot Italian sausages, chopped

1 (28-ounce) can tomato purée

1 (12-ounce) can tomato paste

3 (8-ounce) cans tomato sauce (two with herbs, one regular)

6 ounces freshly grated Romano Cheese

½ cup red wine

Dash each: oregano, basil, salt, pepper, garlic salt, sugar, bay leaf

Sauté vegetables in the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the beef and sausages and cook until browned. Add the tomato purée, tomato paste, tomato sauce, cheese, red wine, and spices and simmer for an hour and a half, uncovered, stirring occasionally.

3
FACT FINDING

L
E CORDON BLEU COLLEGE OF CULINARY ARTS IN ORLANDO,
Florida, is located right off a major highway, behind a fast-food burger joint. The building is large but unassuming; its only identifying feature is the royal-blue sign above the entrance. As I pulled up for my first visit, students dressed all in white milled around the parking lot, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and eating hot dogs from the school cafeteria. Upon first glance, it surely wasn't the eighteenth-century French mansion that I had imagined; there were no chimneys or lovely windowpanes. The dull roar of interstate traffic could still be heard as I approached the building.

When I got inside, I was again a little disappointed. In my romantic vision of culinary school, I had pictured chefs whirling in and out of shiny industrial kitchens, carrying fresh-baked croissants, possibly on silver platters. Instead, I saw the Food Network playing on flat-screen TVs and women dressed in business suits answering phone calls and directing people to the waiting area for the school tour. No croissants or silver platters, and the air smelled faintly of old paint. I had signed up to go on the tour alone because my parents were out of the country on vacation and Rob was working, and I was anxious to see what the school was really like. So far, I wasn't that impressed. I glanced at my watch. The tour would start in five minutes. Then, I would meet an old friend for a late bite to eat down the street, before heading back to Tampa.

Five other people were waiting in the office with me. Three of them looked to be about eighteen and reminded me of my brother. They wore baggy jeans and wrinkled polo shirts and seemed to know the girl who worked behind the desk. Around their necks hung blue lanyards and photo IDs with the traditional Le Cordon Bleu logo. The girl they were flirting with was blushing. She whispered something in Spanish and shooed them away with her hand. The boys laughed and disappeared through the double doors. That left me alone with a woman and a boy.

The admissions girl stood up. “Anyone going on the one o'clock tour, please follow me! I'm Cherie and I'll be your tour guide today,” she said. “What are your names, please?”

“I'm Jenna,” I said.

“I'm Laurie,” said the woman next to me.

The guy barely mumbled, “Casey.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Cherie said. “The tour will take about forty-five minutes, and then afterward, if you want to stick around, I can answer any questions you might have. We'll go into a few kitchens, meet some chefs, and help you get to know Le Cordon Bleu!” Cherie smiled and then pushed open the double doors with her back, revealing a whole new world. Students with black-and-white checkered pants and starched white coats moved quickly down the halls and into classrooms on the right and left. Aromas of meat and garlic filled the air, and chefs with tall hats walked with authority. I tried to picture myself here, wearing those baggy pants and the highly unflattering white cap. I was skeptical. As Cherie stopped to chat with a chef for a moment, Laurie moved to my side. “So, what's your story?” she asked as we peered into a classroom kitchen and saw students with notebooks in their hands huddling around a chef-instructor. The students were scribbling furiously while the chef held a whole raw chicken in the air.

“Well, I just graduated from College of Charleston up in South Carolina. I have an English degree, but what I've always wanted to do is write about food, so I thought culinary school would give me a good background for that.”

“A food writer? Neat! I always though those restaurant critics up there in New York City had the best jobs. I mean, to eat for free!” Laurie said excitedly. She spoke with a bit of a Southern accent, and I guessed she was from closer to the Alabama state line, up in the Panhandle.

I laughed and nodded. “Yeah well, I don't really want to be a critic, although free meals would be nice. I always wanted to write books on food, actually, like cookbooks or novels with recipes in them.”

“Well, good luck! I've never heard of anyone going to culinary school to be a writer, but it sounds interesting all right,” Laurie said and then added with a whisper, “This place sure is expensive, I'll tell you!”

Expensive, indeed. The tuition for both the Culinary and the Baking and Pastry programs rang in around $40,000. I hadn't told my parents too much about the school yet, but knew that if I wanted to go, it would be out of my own pocket by means of student loans.

Laurie told me that it was her lifelong dream to own a bakery, and she was finally in a position to make it come true now that all her children had grown up and moved out. Her passion was cake decorating, and she was interested in the Baking and Pastry program. Laurie had gotten pregnant right out of high school and had been a stay-at-home mom for the past twenty-two years.

Casey, on the other hand, didn't speak at all throughout the entire tour other than to mumble the occasional
yeah
or
I dunno
. He had a tribal tattoo around his forearm and wore his jeans three inches lower on his waist than advised.

All of a sudden, Cherie turned around and paused. “We're going to walk into this classroom kitchen now, so that you all can get a glimpse of what really goes on behind the scenes here. This is Chef Jason's Basic Skills Two class, and I think the students are about to eat dessert—you all are in luck!”

Inside, the air smelled of vanilla and burnt sugar; about ten students stood around a long metal table. There were slices of what appeared to be cheesecake on small white plates and squeeze bottles full of bright red liquid (raspberry sauce?) scattered around. Dishes were stacked up near the sink in the back, and the tables were filled with knives, spoons, and metal whisks. The students were chatting amongst themselves while the chef sat in the back, typing on a desktop computer. For the first time that afternoon, things started to seem real to me, and I was excited to be in on the action. Our tour guide asked one of the students if he could explain to us what they were making.

“Well, we just finished making Beef Wellington, and now this here is New York–style cheesecake with raspberry coulis.” He gestured toward the slice of cake on the plate in front him, clearly very proud of his creation. “Y'all want to try a bite? It's real good, I promise!” He handed out forks to the three of us and smiled. Never being one to turn down dessert, I immediately dug my fork in. The cheesecake was thick and rich, with a lovely tang.

“This is fantastic!” I said enthusiastically as I took a bite of the graham cracker crust. It really
was
fantastic, and at that moment I felt for the first time that this could really be the right place for me. Baking cheesecake all day? I could certainly handle that.

The tour ended with us back at the admissions office, and I said good-bye and good luck to Laurie as she headed out. “Think you'll be back?” she asked me.

I just shrugged. “We'll see! You never know!”

I pulled out of the school parking lot and drove to meet Helen, my childhood best friend. She had called me out of the blue a week ago and asked me if we could meet for lunch. We hadn't seen each other at all for about three years, and I was really looking forward to catching up. We'd met on a second-grade class trip to a science museum, and from that moment on, we were inseparable. When we were younger, our moms were best friends as well, and over the years we took countless family vacations together. Most of my best childhood memories involved Helen. At one time, we had been as close as sisters, but after graduating from high school and heading away to college, we'd stopped being in constant communication. Our daily phone calls slowly turned into weekly, then monthly, and soon, we would chat only every few months, laughing about stories from when we were little, but lacking more recent shared experiences to talk about. I missed my best friend, but it just seemed as if we'd had more in common as preteens than we did now, as women entering adulthood. Still, I couldn't wait to see her and hear the latest news in her life. About two months earlier, my mom had told me that she talked to Helen's mother and learned that Helen was moving to Orlando to become a police officer. At the time, I laughed hysterically, not being able to picture sweet, beautiful Helen carrying a gun and a badge. I was anxious to get the full scoop today.