What I Learned in Cooking Class

Waaaaaaaaaay back on our anniversary, I bought Joe a gift card to a local shop that has cooking classes. We'd talked about doing this forever as we both enjoy cooking and thought it would be something fun to do together. Somehow, we never actually did it so I decided to buy him the gift card, thus ensuring we'd finally make a reservation.

Our class was yesterday and we had a blast. It was a bread-making class. I showed up, ready to dump my ingredients in the bread machine and hit "start" (what, that's not how you make bread?) and learned some interesting things.

• Everything sounds awesomer if you say it with a French accent.
• Apparently, you can make bread without a bread machine!!! Who knew?
• Dough is sticky, y'all. And a lot of work. Where's my bread machine?
• If you have a mild panic attack on the way to class and take a xanax, you'll become so chill you'll forget you even took the xanax. Then you'll gladly drink the glass of wine you're offered at class and be super-duper-loopy.
• The above is the kind of situation that leads Joe to believe I shouldn't be unsupervised in the kitchen.
• Ever.
• French bakers hopped up on percoset are FUN, WHEE!!!!
• That awkward "oh man, I'm doing it wrong, let's make a joke because I feel like an idiot" feeling from high school still exists even in professional adults.
• Sometimes the dough is so sticky and you think it will never end and it's all stuck on your hands and you discover an entirely new way to feel claustrophobic.
• Don't ask the French dude if he has any chocolate chips or cheese to add to the bread. He's medicated and French and a little punchy.

But probably the number one thing I learned at cooking class? "Artisan" and "rustic" are both cooking words that mean "lumpy".

Still, my lumpy Rustic French Country Bread turned out very yummy. And no, I'm not willing to share. If there's one thing I learned from the French dude, it's that it's totally cool to be stabby as long as you say it with an accent. Besides, I put a lot of blood, sweat, and xanax tears into that bread. And a lot of swearing love.

P.S. My bread was much less "rustic" than Joe's. I think he was petting it instead of kneading it.