Reporter trades pens for pots and pans, lives to tell tale

Reporter trades pens for pots and pans, lives to tell tale

The first thing you ought to know about Laurie Kuzneski is that she either has the patience of St. Monica or is a patient in St. Monica's. I'm not yet sure which.

Nonetheless, either aptly explains how it is that she could conduct weeklong, children's cooking camps in her house kitchen. And it explains why she would open her kitchen to me, a stranger whose history strongly suggests a natural inclination toward personal disaster. Especially, that is, when open flame, sharp objects and heavy machinery are involved.

To wit: I once accidentally lit my car on fire. And I once buzzed my thumb on a spinning table saw blade while building a prop for a Halloween costume.

Now the other thing you ought to know is that she is a good cook, self-taught. Or at least she seems to be. I'm not a proper judge. For lunch the other day, I ate a turkey and cheese sandwich on wheat with chili sauce. She owns a home-based peanut brittle business, Miss Laurie's Gourmet Kitchen, and she is preparing to ship a 600-pound order, more than a quarter-ton. That, I'll argue, gives probable cause.

*
With that in mind, I'll bring you to the point of this story, which is to explore what happens when a hopeless bachelor attends a class on how to cook an honest Thanksgiving dinner.

The supposition, at least from the editors who assigned this to me, being that the turkey suffers third-degree burns, firefighters are contacted and much hilarity ensues.

q q q

If nothing else, the editors picked the right man for the job, as evidenced by the contents of my refrigerator, which are, at the time of this writing:

Cheese, two slices, processed American. Individually wrapped.

Chili sauce, Heinz. Bottled.


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Steak and cheese sub, 9th Street Deli. Remnant.

Apples, three. Rotting.

Tomato, one. Sliced.

Mayonnaise, one jar. Light. And separating.

Now, in my defense, I do eat three squares a day. Literally. That's the shape of the packaging my meals come in.

And I have worked professionally in kitchens. I spent about a year at a Subway knockoff chain before accepting a position at an Auntie Anne's pretzel stand. There I was promoted to certified employee. Even had to take a 100-question test, which I passed flawlessly, mostly due to someone slipped me a copy of it in advance.

q q q

I arrived at Laurie's house. It's a Tuesday night, and for once, I'm on time. And proud of it. But I'm disappointed in myself for having failed to bring a bottle of wine.

I had obtained one, but I didn't pay much mind to what I was obtaining.

It was red. It had a cork. And it wasn't in a box. Good enough.

Only later did I look at the name on the label, a French term for a sinful living arrangement. But as applied to the wine, it refers to the three types of grapes used to make it.

From this arises a dilemma in social etiquette: Do I show up empty-handed or do I present my hostess with a suggestively named wine?

Fearing an awkward moment even before the evening had a chance to start, I opted for the former and hoped that hard work and charming personality would mitigate this faux pas.

q q q

Laurie invites me in, and I take note of the kitchen.

Stone countertops. Kettle faucet. And a commercial-grade, gas-fired oven. I'm fairly sure it has enough BTUs to smelt copper.

Yup. I'm already in over my head.

``How about we make a martini?'' she asks.

Capital idea.

It's pumpkin, and it tastes good. I'm not discerning about my drink; I'll drink a Schlitz if you put it in front of me.

The recipe, she explains, is courtesy of her sister-in-law, the Martini Mistress. Really. She has a Web site and everything.

``She's not shabby, my sister-in-law,'' she said.

q q q

Soon, my classmates arrive. We're completely gathered around the island, and we get under way.

Laurie explained to the class that I am to serve as her sous-chef.

``God help you all,'' I said.

``Which is why I cooked an entire meal ahead of time,'' she interjects.

On the menu that evening: turkey and gravy with stuffing and mashed potatoes. Cranberry sauce. ``Not the kind that's in the shape of a can,'' Laurie said. Sweet potato casserole. Brussels sprouts. Roasted garlic and butternut squash soup. Pumpkin pie. And pumpkin martinis.

``I was thinking soup to nuts, so this'll help you deal with the nuts,'' she said.

So over the next three hours, I performed many tasks foreign to me. I mashed the mashed potatoes. I salted with a sea salt grinder. I whipped the whipped cream.

I asked Laurie's husband if his wife realized that grocery stores sell tubs of this stuff, already made.

``Don't tell her that,'' he said. ``She might beat you.''

She even let me pulse the cranberries in the food processor.

``You've graduated to power tools,'' one of my classmates said.

q q q

As we're cooking, I thought back to my childhood Thanksgivings, which traditionally were at my grandmother's.

Dinners there were never so much a dinner as they were a chow line in the mess hall. A bird that took I don't know how numerous hours to prepare usually was ravaged in five minutes.

And afterward, everyone would fall asleep, save for my aunt, mother, and grandmother, who were left to do the dishes. And that was the extent of that day.

Ah, memories.

So if anything, I left Laurie's kitchen that night with an appreciation for the work that goes into a big dinner. And a sense of accomplishment in having not ruined anything. You have to take pride in the small things, right?

And I learned a couple of things, too.

Such as that there is a difference between stuffing and dressing. Stuffing, as it turns out, is what is stuffed inside the turkey. Dressing, meanwhile, is stuffing that isn't shoved in the bird. Really, though, it's all still cubed bread if you ask me.

But most importantly, I learned that I do not have a passion for cooking, which is why I suspect I'll continue to use chili sauce as a sandwich condiment.

I'm sure this news will greatly disappoint my mother, who lately has been asking, in a pleading way, ``So are you going to cook dinner this year?''

Nope, I tell her. But I'll make the martinis.