Chapter 8: Ansel's Eight

Ansel Cushman did not teach the way my grandmother did.

She talked while she cooked, and told you everything twice, with stories in between.

Ansel rarely spoke, or he said nothing and rapped the pot.

"Onions," he said, at six-fifteen on Sunday morning, and pointed his wooden spoon at the pan.

"They're soft."

He shook his head.

"They're translucent."

He shook his head harder.

"Ansel," I said, "I don't know what you want."

He closed his eyes.

"Listen," he said.

I listened.

The pan was quiet, a small wet sizzle.

I stood there feeling stupid until a minute later the sound changed, thinner and sharper.

His eyes snapped open, and he pointed at the pan.

I pulled it off the heat.

The onions were pale gold at the edges and faintly sweet, and he nodded once.

"The onions tell you," he said. "Sound first. Then color."

"You cook by ear."

He grunted, which meant yes.

"That's why you never wrote anything down."

"Never needed to."

It was the longest sentence he had given me, and I held very still, afraid of spooking it.

I got a notebook out of my coat and wrote ONIONS: LISTEN.

By seven he had walked me through the tourtiere and the rolls, and I had stopped trying to measure.

He taught me the dough by hand, pressing my thumb into it until I felt the give, and he said "there" when it was right.

His fingers shook the whole time, a fine, steady tremor like a plucked wire.

But when they touched the dough they went quiet.

I noticed it and said nothing.

Keep reading free with an account. Start Christmas Recipe for Romance from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.