Kitchen Chaos by Deborah A. Levine Page A

little. I’ve never tried, but I could probably make Dad’s corn breadfrom memory. My mom knows this, of course. Even though the two of us don’t have the kind of partner ESP like Liza and I do, without saying a word, we switch positions so that now she’s the sous chef and I’m in charge.
    Despite the fact that my mom nearly mixed up the measurements for sugar and salt, then splashed the buttermilk everywhere, our corn bread comes out pretty good. It’s not Dad-quality, but it’s definitely edible, which is more than I can say for the dishes Mom attempted. Chef Antonio is working his way around the room, tasting everyone’s bread and giving out compliments and pointers. When he reaches us, his eyes light up at the sight of our perfectly golden, fully cooked corn bread.
    â€œYou see, Theresa,” he says, putting his arm around my mom’s shoulders (if Liza weren’t focusing on her corn bread, she’d be really jealous!), “the third time is a charm. Just look at this gorgeous creation. I knew you could do it—you should be proud!”
    Poor Mom. Chef Antonio has moved along to Errol and Henry before we have the chance to set him straight. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m sure my mom’s cooking “challenges” will reveal themselves again next week—over and over again.

CHAPTER 15
Lillian

    Going to school with your mother is definitely weird, even if it is cooking school. Mama has never been shy about her (very) extensive knowledge of food, but who knew she’d be like one of those kids who always raises a hand aggressively or blurts out the answer without giving anyone else a chance? It’s like she just wants to show off how much she knows about every little thing. So embarrassing.
    At least she didn’t turn every recipe into a disaster,like Frankie’s mom. But I think I might have preferred that to how competitive she was—with me—and how she insisted on doing everything perfectly. By the look on Frankie’s face at the end of class, I’m guessing she would have rather been partners with my mother than hers. I’m beginning to discover that those two have a lot in common. Maybe that’s why Frankie’s still not even half as nice to me as Liza. I can tell she’s trying, but mostly because Liza’s always giving her looks or nudges to remind her that we’re all a team.
    Right now we’re in the computer lab at school. We’re supposed to be writing up our project proposal for Mr. McEnroe, but we got preoccupied looking at the video I shot of Saturday’s class. I mostly focused on Chef Antonio explaining the history of corn and demonstrating how to do the tricky parts of the recipes, but I also got some good action shots of Liza, Frankie, and their moms.
    â€œHey, there’s my polenta!” Liza yells, pointing atthe screen but being careful not to touch it because our digital media teacher, Mr. Russo, makes you clean every single monitor in the room if he catches you even accidentally touching one. “Looking good, right? And tasty, too!”
    â€œI’ll bet,” Frankie grumbles. She’s already fast-forwarded through the shots of her mom stirring and stirring—technically, we were “whisking”—their lumpy pot of polenta. Her mom looks more like she is literally attacking the cornmeal than preparing it. On the screen we can see her go whack, whack, whack. Apparently, they never made it past the “mush” stage.
    I didn’t shoot much of Mama and me working on our recipes, mostly because it was hard to hold the camera and add ingredients at the same time. The few shots I did get make me cringe. In every one my mother is showing me how to “properly” sprinkle herbs or pour batter into a baking dish—or even spread butter on corn! I’m starting to wonder if asking her to sign up for the class was a mistake. Shewas ready to quit