Cooking Class

Cooking Class

"The only thing that will make a soufflé fall
is if it knows you're afraid of it," the instructor recited,
stale jokes and borrowed wisdom.
She who, less than wise and far from fair,
had bull's-eyed us in a moment,
condescension at first sight of us, two "kids,"
free flying our folded maps of the building
while the others traded recipes inside.

"This is not on the ingredient list."
Our Grand Marnier was confiscated and we,
like two blushing teens busted at the high school dance,
transformed into class examples of what not to do,
how not to be, stir, shake, laugh, "That's not right!."
Another mini-bottle slipped in before any could see.
He winked, conspiracy in dark, spiked chocolate,
while our hesitant classmates trembled their bowls.

Ovens lit, break time called, we rushed out
past the smokers, gossips, sympathetic glances,
to stop, brake, slam into the cheap tin siding.
Driving my skirt to my hips, pushing in, he growled,
"This is not on your list and cross your legs young lady."
Tremors bled out from arms held above my head.
The wall quaked, I cried, "Don't talk to strangers."
"Stop that, you'll go blind." Quiver. Shake.
"Never... a hand above th-he knee--aah."

A door slammed in the dark, calling us back in
to a room full of expectant, watching eyes.
We felt them all but mistook their intent until we saw
the instructor walking away from our oven,
blinking her shock at the one deviantly perfect soufflé
the only one that had refused to cave under its own weight.
I winked and brushed his lips with our dark, sweet taste
knowing that we'd been doing it right all along.