White Jacket Required by Jenna Weber Page B

scrape the tail.
    â€œThis is a traditional dish where I come from,” Carlo said. “We usually serve it only on Christmas, though, ’cause it’s so rich.”
    Rich is right! I thought, and proceeded to heat the oil and drop in the tails one by one. They sizzled when they hit the hot fat and smelled almost like burgers. Soon, the tails grew golden brown and the fat pooled around them in glistening puddles. While I had been working on the tails, Josh had put together a mix of sautéed mirepoix (onion, carrot, and celery) and deglazed the pan with some white wine and chicken stock. I carefully transferred the sizzling tails to the other pan, and Carlo quickly poured more stock on top.
    â€œThere!” I said. “I guess that needs about an hour to cook, so we can get all our cleanup done early.” Other students were still searing their tails and chopping onions, and I felt very glad for my fast little group. The guys went outside for their cigarette break and I started scrubbing the table. I had to admit that the oxtails smelled a lot better now, simmering with rich stock and vegetables, than they had on their own. I peeked under the lid and saw white foam dotting the top of the stock; carrots rose and fell in the bubbles.
    When it was finally done and we came together as a class to taste the fruits of our labor, I brought a spoonful to my lips and paused. The cooked tails still smelled vaguely like hamburgers, and tiny bits of meat and fat had fallen off the tail and now swirled in the stew as well. It looked good. I put the spoon in my mouth and chewed. I had to admit, the flavor wasn’t all bad, but the texture of the tail was what got me. It really was just like a fat-covered Popsicle, and the meat felt stringy and greasy in my mouth. I set the bowl down and took a sip of water. At least I had tasted it.
    Over the next three weeks, I worked harder than I ever had for anything in my life. I cut, butchered, and seared. I memorized all the parts of a cow and pig, and scared Helen half to death in the kitchen one night as I practiced deboning a chicken while in my pajamas around midnight. I had only a few days until my final practical for the class, where we would have to break down both a chicken and a fish completely, each in less than two minutes. Breaking down was a term used to describe the process of turning the animal from a whole carcass into edible portions. We were expected to know the different bones and how to remove them gently, with swift slits of the knife, so as to not tear the gentle flesh. Everything needed to be intact, clean, and ready to throw in a hot skillet.
    Despite my hard work, I was worried about the final, mainly because my heart just wasn’t in cutting up animals. I liked to eat meat, but butchery wasn’t for me. At home, I preferred to cook simple meals like pasta or vegetables, foods that didn’t have eyes and feelings. On the wall in the classroom kitchen, a huge framed poster of the different parts of the pig stared back at me, and I couldn’t help but wonder what animals really thought as they were led into the slaughterhouse.
    I knew that because I wasn’t giving it my all, my grades were suffering. The next day, Chef Sharmin called me into his office. While I sat there shivering in my long underwear under my whites, he told me that I wasn’t “putting maximum effort into the class” and that I needed to start “acting more like a real chef and less like a little girl.” I felt tears start to sting my eyes and bit my bottom lip hard. As Chef added that my grade in this class depended on the final practical exam, I stared at my cuticles.
    â€œYou got it, Miss Weber? Go home tonight and practice. I want one hundred percent tomorrow morning, or else.”
    â€œThanks, Chef. I got it. I really have been practicing at home, though, I swear. It just doesn’t come easy to me, that’s all.” I thought back