Page 9 of Savoring Christmas
By the time their marinaras were simmering, filling the room with the rich, sweet smell of tomatoes and herbs, her students seemed to be enjoying themselves too. Although they were concentrating on their task, they chatted among themselves. Even grumpy, slightly scary Logan seemed to be getting into the fray, laughing with Harold at their failed attempts to cut their onions evenly.
Mia stopped at Logan’s station, wincing at the leafy carnage on his cutting board. “Do you remember how I showed you to cut the basil into ribbons?”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “Um, yeah. Aren’t these ribbons?”
Mia shook her head, smiling. “Not any I’ve ever seen. Your basil looks like it went through a wood chipper.”
He laughed, a low sound that made her pulse tick up. “It kind of does.”
She stepped closer, picked up his knife, and rolled a few fresh basil leaves into a tight bundle. “The trick is a gentle hand and a sharp blade. What I’m showing you is called achiffonade—it’s a classic technique for cutting herbs or leafy greens into long, delicate ribbons.”
Thelma frowned from two stations over. “What now? I’ve never heard that word in my life.”
“It’s French,” Mia explained with an easy smile, raising her voice so the whole class could hear. “Chiffonadejust means ‘little ribbons.’ The idea is to keep the leaves stacked and rolled so the cut is clean. It’s easier than it sounds, I promise.”
Logan, deadpan, pulled his notebook from his pocket. “How do you spell that?”
Mia arched a brow, smiling at his eagerness to get everything “right.” The attitude reminded her of herself. “Here, give me your book. I’ll write it down for you.”
Their fingers brushed as he handed her the notepad, which sent a little shiver through her. Strange. She would think about that later.
Mia attempted to demonstrate how to cut them into ribbons but Logan’s knife needed sharpening. “No wonder you couldn’t get yours into ribbons. You can’t get a clean cut with something this dull. We need to take care of that first.”
She glanced toward the rest of the class. “Actually, guys, let’s talk about your knives.” Setting Logan’s knife down, she crossedto the counter to retrieve her honing steel. “Before you can slice basil—or anything—properly, you need to make sure your knife’s sharp. A dull knife’s more dangerous than a sharp one. It slips. It tears. It makes you curse under your breath. And it can really cut you if you’re not careful. I’ll show you the best way to sharpen with Logan’s knife here.” She demonstrated a smooth, practiced motion, the blade whispering against the steel. “You don’t need to go fast. It’s not about speed, it’s about control. Think smooth, even strokes.”
Abby and Reese leaned closer.
Harold murmured, “My late wife was always asking me to sharpen her knives. I’ve been doing it wrong all these years. She’s probably rolling her eyes if she’s watching from heaven.”
“Most people do it incorrectly.” Mia handed Logan his now-honed knife. “Only because they haven’t seen it demonstrated properly. Here, try again. This time, roll the basil into a bundle—gentle pressure, let the blade do the work.”
Logan followed her instructions, the knife slicing cleanly through the leaves.
“Well done.” Mia plucked up one of the perfect green ribbons and held it up. “See? Ribbons. Not confetti.”
Logan’s mouth curved upward into a smile that made him look like a little boy. “That was oddly satisfying.”
“Does everyone want to take a turn sharpening your knives?” Mia asked. “I should have started class with that. I’m learning as I go, so forgive me.”
“No problem, teach,” Kris said. “This is all for fun anyway, right?”
“I’m glad you’re all having fun,” Mia said. “That makes me happy.”
It was true too. She was having fun and learning more about how to teach at the same time. This was exactly how she’d hopedit would be. Community. Cooking. Shared experiences. Maybe Remi had been right. This was good for her.
“All right, guys, I’m going to put the water on for pasta so we can enjoy your sauces. We’ll go over how to make fresh pasta on Thursday but I’ll use dry for tonight. I brought some of my focaccia bread to share as well.”
“Fortunately, Cannoli isn’t here,” Abby said, laughing.
“She would be a total menace,” Mia said.
Everyone took turns sharpening their knives as the room filled with the rich aromas of the sauces simmering.
After Mia had her spaghetti noodles cooking in the pot of boiling water, she noticed three small faces, pressed close to the window that led to the cafeteria, noses practically against the glass.
They were hungry. That much was obvious.
“Hey, guys,” Mia said to her students. “I see a few little ones out there who look like they would love a plate of spaghetti. Should we invite them in after we’re finished?”
