Excerpt
Love at 350°
I Tori Moore scanned her classroom, checking her fifth-period Biochemistry of Baking students’ progress. Three of Sequoia High’s star football players were pulverizing dry ice in a blender ahead of mixing it into their strawberry and chocolate bases to fast freeze the ice cream. Another team hovered around a saucepan, willing a cup of caramel sauce into existence out of white sugar, water, kosher salt, and immense patience. Some students were candying walnuts; others were making marshmallow fluff. A pair of ambitious sophomores were attempting to make a homegrown version of M&M’s. Each student had already written a term paper describing the chemical reactions and biodiversity that conjured the magic of dessert. At the end of today’s class—if all went well—they’d get to eat their homework. All that stood between them and summer vacation was making ice cream sundaes. With all the ingredients made from scratch.
“Oh, sugar,” she heard one of the football players mutter as his blender stalled. Whenever Tori heard an outburst like that, she smiled. It meant that the fifteen teenagers, who could have easily spent the period gossiping or chucking chocolate chips at one another, were concentrating completely on their final exam.
It also meant her students respected her enough to follow her rules; namely, that when they got stuck, literally or figuratively, they could swear as loudly as they wanted as long as they used baking terms. Her personal favorites from this semester’s class were
Lamination! and
Choux! Crouching down to use the classroom’s paper towel dispenser as a mirror, Tori took a minute to freshen up. She adjusted the green-and-gold paisley scarf she’d received as a present from a student last Christmas, which she wore often because it amplified her hazel eyes, and corralled her thick hair into a ponytail, making a mental note to book a cut and color appointment since the gray hairs were infiltrating the strawberry blonde again. She also confirmed that she didn’t have cocoa powder mixed in with the freckles across the bridge of her nose. Standing back up, she brushed a smudge of brown sugar off her hip and turned her attention to her students.
“Ten minutes, folks!” Tori’s co-teacher, Della DeMarco, warned the students. Her update was met by a chorus of groans and barked orders to fellow teammates.
“Dude, we need more CO2. The strawberry ice cream is soup!”
“No, no, no, don’t let the sugar crystallize!”
“Hold the candy still, Katy. The
Ms are blurry!”
Tori caught Della’s eye: They were both beaming with pride. Della was the Skills for Living teacher, and they’d developed this curriculum together a few years back based on a conversation they’d had during their shared lunch break.
“I’m sick of kids thinking my class is the same old-timey, prim Home Ec where their grandmothers sewed aprons decades ago,” Della had said, taking a bite of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich and leaving a ring of coral lipstick on the white bread. “I got into this field because I want kids to learn how to take care of themselves. Be self-sufficient, manage their money, set some goals.” She’d adjusted her cat-eye glasses and leaned in. “You know, they used to call this Domestic Science for a reason. Now, kids blow it off as an easy A and barely try.”
“I know what you mean,” Tori had said, unwrapping her caprese sandwich. “They take my chemistry class to get into college, but a lot of them think they’ll never use the information again, so they do the bare minimum. I wish we weren’t so tied to the textbook.”
Della’s dark eyes focused on Tori’s sandwich. “Wow, that looks delicious.”
“Here,” Tori said, tearing off a piece to share.
“Did you make the focaccia?”
“Last night.”
“And the mozzarella?”
“Saturday.”
“And the basil and tomatoes . . .”
“From my garden.”
“Now you’re just showing off.” Della picked up the remains of her PB&J and frowned. “This was the best I could come up with this morning. Most mornings.”
“Della, it’s not a contest,” Tori reassured her. “You’re a great cook as well as a terrific teacher.”
“And you’re a fantastic cook. I mean, you should teach my class sometime.”
“Same.”
At that moment, they had looked at each other, and the penny dropped. Over a weekend brunch of homemade lemon ricotta pancakes and a glass or two of prosecco, Tori and Della came up with the Biochem of Baking lesson plan. They’d pitched it to the administration and arranged their schedules so they could team teach. Five years after it launched, it was still one of the most popular courses at Sequoia High. It not only breathed some fresh air into Tori’s career as a science teacher; it also cemented her fast friendship with Della, a teaching vet with three decades of experience under her belt who’d provided advice and ego boosts when Tori needed them most.
“Five minutes,” Della called from the other side of the classroom. This was Tori’s cue to text Mr. Alonzo, the principal, to taste the final projects. The Pacific Ocean breeze wafted by the windows, which were open on a rare June day when there wasn’t any Northern California fog and the sun hung in the sky like a poached egg. Tori took a deep, satisfied breath, and along with the eucalyptus and salt air, she inhaled the unmistakable scent of incinerating sugar.
Tori walked over to a group of girls, one suspending a saucepan inches above the stove top and hyperventilating. “How’s the caramel sauce going over here, Brianne?”
“I swear the temperature was right,” the girl said, frustrated and apologetic.
“It was 338 degrees!” her teammate Jacqueline added. “We’re almost out of time! We are so fu—” She paused briefly midsentence, then finished, “fudged!”
“Well, here you are anyway,” Tori said. “What can you do?”
“We don’t have time to start over,” Jacqueline said.
“We could add a splash of vanilla to even out the flavor,” said Dakota, the third girl on the team.
“Hurry up and do something!” Jacqueline said. “It’s cooling!”
“Okay,” Brianne said, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s add the vanilla, cream, and butter and hope people think burnt caramel is a culinary delight.”
“Go to it, ladies,” Tori said. “Good luck!”
As the girls got back to work over their saucepan, Tori joined Della at the back of the room.
“How much time?”
Della looked at her stopwatch. “Two minutes left.”
“Want to give them an extra minute?”
“Not fair to those who’ve figured out how to stay on schedule,” Della replied. “Besides, I want to get out of here on time, take advantage of the half day, and grab some tacos. Want to join me?”
“I can’t,” Tori said, only half regretting it. She was fond of Della, but inevitably when they socialized, her colleague would drop names of ladies she knew in hopes of setting up a blind date, not so delicately suggesting Tori should get back on the scene. “I’m taking the twins into the city for lunch,” she explained. “It’s our last-day-of-school tradition, and now that they’re graduating and it’s their
last last day of school, I definitely can’t miss it.”
“I can’t believe they’re going to college already,” Della said, shaking her head. “I remember when they were freshmen in my fifth-period class. Milo was a head shorter than Mia back then.”
“I still think of them as babies, wrapped in their blankets like burritos. They couldn’t fall asleep without being side by side in the same crib,” Tori said wistfully.
Della squeezed Tori’s arm. “But here’s the silver lining. Once you’re an empty nester, we’ll be able to get together more often. At least until you meet that special someone.”
Tori braced herself.
Here comes the pitch. “Speaking of which,” Della went on, “you would
love my cousin Linda. She’s really outdoorsy, always posting photos of her hikes with her chocolate lab. Oh, and she’s vegan.”
Tori cocked an eyebrow. “You know I can’t live my life without butter, eggs, cheese, yogurt, cream . . . and did I mention butter?”
