Learning Curves 1 - French Cooking 101 (8 page)

Ines was a chemistry student with a germ phobia so bad that Ariane believed Inès was the only pretty twenty-four-year-old in Paris who had never been kissed. Kissing meant swapping germs. Ariane guessed there was no denying that fact. Ariane felt sorry for Inès, but it wasn’t her place to force her to seek therapy. Especially since it made her a fabulous cleaning lady.
 

Inès’s only drawback was that she probably held the world record for the most consumption of chlorine and white vinegar. Anything that could not be disinfected with chlorine was soaked in white vinegar. Fortunately, Ines understood that she couldn’t, under any circumstance, mix chlorine and vinegar… unless she wanted to commit suicide by burning her lungs.

On one side of the spotless counters, Ariane set out the leftover meats from Saturday’s pot au feu. On the other side, she set out all the vegetables they would work with. She had several varieties of potatoes and carrots she wanted to show them. She wasn’t sure they had the same species in the U.S. Nevertheless, she hoped her students would change their way of eating as soon as they knew there was such diversity. Curiosity was a good tool to use to get people to look for different types of the same vegetables.
 

Feeling someone behind her, Ariane turned around. Peter stood by the door looking at her. What was he doing here so early? A quick glance at the clock reassured her. She was on her schedule. Good. It was only eight thirty.
 

Fishing in her apron pocket for her elastic band, she pulled her hair back to tie it into a ponytail and said, “Good morning, Peter. You’re an hour early today.” Locks escaped her hands as she fumbled with her hair. It had a life of its own that morning. Probably because she hadn’t even attempted to tame it with a brush before walking down from her bedroom.

In two steps, he stood right in front of her. The elastic band was pulled from her hand and put back in her pocket. “I got here early because I wanted to be alone with you for a while.”

Bringing her hair back to frame her face, he caressed her jaw with the back of his hand. Ariane tried to back away. He was way too close for comfort. She smelled coffee and peppermint on his breath. With a firm hand on her arm, he held her, and her train of thought derailed. She looked under the debris—not a single coherent survivor. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember why she had pushed him away Friday night. Instead of thoughts, she felt an aching need. A need as primal as hunger or thirst. A need that ran so deep it couldn’t be ignored. A need that pushed her to lean into him.
 

“I’ve been thinking—” he said.

She interrupted him by brushing his lips with hers. Oh, it felt so right she had to do it again. Just one more time. That was just what she needed. Tiny bites of heaven. More addictive than peanuts. Once she started, there was no stopping her.

He gently caught her lower lip between his teeth and took over, not giving her a chance to pull away. She wouldn’t have tried anyway. The desire in his eyes was intoxicating. She was undone.
 

 
He kissed her and wrapped his arms around her, pressing on her buttocks as if she could possibly curve further into him. Heat pooled at the core of her body. Her nerve endings were twisted so tight, she felt like a ticking time bomb. She could no longer breathe.
 

Just once, she would let herself go. Just once.
 

Her brain came back from its morning stroll around the block when she realized that the bottom of her dress had risen to her hips. His hands slid underneath the lace of her panties.

She said, “Curtains. Door.”

“Don’t care,” he said.

“Neighbors—”

“Shouldn’t look.” He pushed her against the wall in the corner of the room that was less visible from the outside. He slid one hand between her legs.
     

Her body caught fire, and her brain vanished in a puff of smoke. The entire world could be watching; she no longer cared. She could only concentrate on the gentle stroking that was catapulting the pulsing between her legs to new heights. He kissed her again, and she moaned in his mouth. In an instant, her legs would no longer be able to hold her. She was about to combust …

“Oh merde! Pardon, Ariane. Désolée, j’ai rien vu. J’laisse le pain à coté de la porte.”

Peter froze, and Ariane crash-landed back to reality.
 

“Merde, merde, merde,” Ariane swore, teeth clenched, and pushed her skirt down. By the time she dared look over Peter’s shoulder, the teenager had fled.

“What was that?” asked Peter, not releasing her from his embrace.

“Martine. Bread delivery.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventeen.”

A look of relief washed over Peter’s face, and his laughter came out on a big rumble. “Seventeen! For a second, I thought we had caused a major trauma. Come on, at seventeen, I’d be surprised if she hasn’t done more than what she’s just seen. Seriously.”

“You’re probably right.”

“What did she say?”

“Oh, crap. Sorry, Ariane. I did not see anything. I’m leaving the bread by the door.”

“See, no trauma.”

Ariane relaxed a bit, rested her head against Peter’s shoulder, and joined his laughter. “This is the story of my life. If I’m proper and reasonable all the time, it’s not that I don’t want to act crazy. I swear, inside of me is a naughty girl who dreams of doing wild things. I just can’t let her free because every single time I step out of line, something bad happens.”

“Don’t worry about it. Now I know that when I wanna see the wild girl in you, I need to make sure we’re in a more private setting.” He caressed her hair. “I want next time to be perfect, so it can’t be tonight.”

 
She looked at him, puzzled. What did he mean?

“You see, I’m a great believer in delayed gratification. Just this instant, I decided that next time will be when I return.”

The last part of his sentence was all she heard. “You’re coming back? To Paris?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To be with you.”
 

“When?” Ariane asked.

“In a few weeks. At the end of the spring term at the end of May.”

“For how long?”
   

“Don’t know yet.”

“How?”

Peter said, “Would you stop asking questions for a minute? I want you. You say you won’t have me if we have no time, so I’m making time. Isn’t that enough?” Not giving her a chance to answer, he kissed her again.
 

Then the part about deferred gratification registered. She had to ask. Every time she tried to do so, he shut her mouth with another kiss. She wanted to hug him and strangle him simultaneously. Finally he relented and let her speak.

“I have one question before the others arrive.”

“Okay, you’re allowed one more question.”

She said, “I’m not sure what you mean by delayed gratification. For me, delayed gratification is… self-inflicted frustration? Like you have to diet first to lose some weight later. You have to learn your keys before you can play an instrument.”

“That’s basically the idea,” he said with a smirk.

Ariane was aghast. She needed to make sure she understood him properly. “Are you telling me that if now I say yes, you’re going to say no?”

“I’m not saying no, honey. I’m saying later… and that should make things quite interesting.”

❦

About the Author

Born in Manhattan, Olivia Rigal spent her youth going back and forth between her French mother in France and her American father in the United States.
 

She lived and studied in both countries before settling in France to raise her family.
 

A writer and singer at night, she practices law in the daytime.

Olivia has travelled throughout South East Asia and has a special fondness for Laos and Thailand. She loves nothing more than swimming in white waters or through the waves of the Atlantic Ocean in MacArthur Beach State Park close to her Florida home.

If you enjoyed reading this book,
I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy it, too.
Please, review it,
with your favorite book provider.

If you do write a review, please send me an email at
[email protected]
so I can thank you with a personal email
or visit me on Facebook
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to be informed of any new publication.
Learning Curves will comprise 3 books:
- French Cooking 101,
- Advanced French Kissing,
- Detention.

Special bonus
 

SOUFFLÉ AU FROMAGE — CHEESE SOUFFLÉ

Serves 4 as a main dish — 6 as a starter.

Prepare in separate small bowls.

* Butter
4 oz (120g)

* Flour
4 oz (120g)

* Whole milk
4 oz (120g)

* Grated Swiss cheese 8.5 oz (240g)

* Butter
4 oz (120g)

* Flour
4 oz (120g)

- Eggs yolks 8
 

- A little extra butter and extra flour for the cooking dish
 

- Nutmeg, salt, and pepper

Butter the inside of a large round cooking dish.

Dust dish with flour.

Warm up the oven to 350° F (180° C).

Beat the 8 whites of the eggs till they are very firm.

25 minutes before serving :

1) Melt the butter in a large saucepan at the lowest possible heat.

2) Slowly add the flour and then the milk while constantly stirring. Do not wait until the butter/flour mix turns into a paste to add more milk but don’t pour all the milk in at once. You want to reach a creamy texture.

3) Remove saucepan from heat and add the egg yolks one by one.

4) When the mix is one unified color again, add the cheese, salt, and pepper to taste, and grate a quarter of a nutmeg.

Now this is the only touchy part. Fold your mixture with the beaten egg whites and pour the mixture in your cooking dish. Place the dish in the center of the cooking rack in the middle of the oven. Close the door and go away for twenty minutes.

You do not want to open the oven door to check on it before the twenty minutes have passed.

Serve at once in cooking dish.

See, what did I tell you? It’s simpler than pie.

CRÈME BRÛLÉE

Serves 6 to 8.

 
- Liquid cream
 
254 fl oz (750 cl)

- Whole milk
84 fl oz (250 cl)

- Sugar
0.33 pounds (150 g)

- 6 large eggs

- 2 large vanilla beans or 3 small ones (or artificial flavoring)

Pour cream and milk in a saucepan and bring to a boil.

Remove from heat and throw in the vanilla beans, opened in two, length-wise.

Let it cool to room temperature.

Mix the eggs and the sugar and gently pour in the cooled mixture.

Pour mixture in small individual cooking dishes or one large shallow dish.

Place on middle rack of the oven at 150°F (about 70°C) for twenty to thirty minutes.

You’ll know it’s ready to come out of the oven when the cream jiggles a little when you shake the cooking dish.

Let it cool until it’s time to serve.

Dust with brown sugar and caramelize the sugar with a kitchen blowtorch or under the oven grill.

Serve when sugar is bubbly.
 

OLIVIA’S VINAIGRETTES

For a very large salad bowl

- One tablespoon of Dijon mustard

- One tablespoon of balsamic vinegar, or better yet, cream of vinegar

- Two tablespoons of olive oil

- Salt and pepper to taste

This mixture can be prepared in advance and kept refrigerated.

The herbs and/or the garlic should be thrown in just before serving.

It works well with chives, scallions, cilantro, and paper-thin slivers of garlic.

Olive oil can be substituted by one tablespoon of hazelnut oil.

Sweeter variation:

- One tablespoon of seeded Meaux mustard

- One tablespoon of granulated sugar

- One tablespoon of cider vinegar

- Two tablespoons of flaxseed oil

- Salt and pepper to taste.

Chapter I of Learning Curves 2

STAYING IN BED LATE ON Saturday morning was such a treat, thought Ariane as she stretched lazily in her large bed. A fabulous top-of-the-line king-size bed had been her present to herself for her twenty-fifth birthday. Every single morning when she rolled onto the fresh side of the bed to sleep another half hour before getting up, she thanked herself for it.
 

Daylight streamed through the heavy curtains of her bedroom overlooking the cobblestone courtyard of the building. The rays reflected off the mirrored sliding doors of the wall-to-wall closet she had built next to her bed. It made the room look larger. A bird chirped. Hers was an incredibly quiet place to live in Paris.
 

On the other side of the main building one could hear the hustle of the rue Saint Dominique, the sounds of families going about their weekend shopping, the hum of the engines of the delivery trucks blocking the street, and the yells of the drivers of the other vehicles frustrated by the slow pace forced upon them. The noise was at a peak around eleven thirty a.m., when the traffic was slowed down further by kids coming out of their Saturday morning classes. They scattered on the streets screaming with delight, celebrating the arrival of the weekend.

That side was the one Madame Caroline, the owner of the building, had picked to live on. “There’ll be enough quiet for me when I’m at the cemetery,” she always said.

The woman, who would be a century old in a few months, sat by her windows most of the day and enjoyed her view of the street. “This is what life is all about,” she would explain to whomever would listen, and lately Ariane felt she was the last one still listening. “I’ve buried a few husbands, all of my childhood friends, and most of my contemporaries. I have no one left to reminisce with, so instead of crying, I decided to live in the present and imagine the future. I watch the kids going in and out from school, I watch them play in the courtyard, and I know what type of adults they will turn into. You can always tell because no one ever changes. We just get more set in our ways when we change playgrounds.”