“They’re such an upbeat couple,” Eileen said. “After what they must have gone through, I’m ashamed to make such a fuss over my problems.”

“Atrocities go on every day somewhere in the world. We’ve been very lucky,” I said.

I try not to forget that. I appreciate the accident of birth that put me in a relatively safe part of the world.

Mrs. Tran held the Dutch doors open as Eileen and I carried the boxes inside.

“Good morning,” she said brightly.

Eileen and I returned her greeting.

“How is Mr. Tran?” I asked. “Did he have the tests you mentioned?”

Her smile dimmed a bit, but she maintained a cheerful demeanor. “We are very hopeful. Good doctors here.”

I matched her positive tone. “Tell Mr. Tran that I’m sending him my best wishes.”

“That will please him,” she said.

The store’s telephone rang. Mrs. Tran excused herself to answer it.

“She has such a delicate face,” Eileen said. “She must have been lovely when she was young.”

“She still is,” I said. “It’s just a different kind of beauty now. Part her bone structure, and part her spirit.”

The Happy Table cooking school was in the back of the store; it had been converted from what had once been a storeroom. To get there, we had to carry our boxes past an array of attractive kitchen equipment. The Trans had arranged the merchandise so that it looked as though the store was divided into four separate kitchens, each in a different style, from the sleekest modern to cozy country. The layout worked to the advantage of the Trans, because many of the students bought items that caught their attention as they were walking through the displays.

“One day, when I have some extra money, I’m going to buy a new KitchenAid stand mixer,” I said. “In red. The problem is that the one I’ve had for twenty-five years refuses to wear out or break down.”

Eileen chuckled. “That company must have missed the class on ‘planned obsolescence.’ So many things start going to pieces right after the warranty runs out.”

For the past three years, Eileen had worked as my assistant at the school to earn extra money, so the two of us had set up for these classes many times. It didn’t take us long to cover the preparation tables with disposable cloths, organize the ingredients for what I was going to demonstrate this morning, and check the four stoves to make sure the burners and the ovens were working.

We finished just as the eight Mommy & Me teams began to arrive. Eileen handed out disposable aprons for them to put on.

The seven mothers, eight children, and one nanny placed themselves around the preparation tables. They were a nice ethnic mix. The two youngest mothers were about thirty, and the two oldest were deep into their forties. The rest were somewhere in between. The nanny was a Latina in her early twenties, accompanying a six-year-old girl named Alicia who didn’t want to let go of her caregiver’s hand.

The other seven children-five more girls and two boys-ranged in age from six to nine and were much bolder than little Alicia. One of Eileen’s jobs was keeping the children corralled near the prep tables where she could watch over them.

I told the class, “Today’s recipes form a theme: They’re dishes with family connections. The first one we’re going to make is Linda Dano’s Italian Meatballs recipe, which was taught to her by her mother-in-law. You moms probably know Linda Dano as an Emmy-winning actress, but when Linda’s husband, Frank Attardi, was diagnosed with lung cancer, she stopped working to be with him full-time. After he lost the battle, she became the national spokesperson for the Caregivers Survival Kit and Support Partners. Linda calls her mother-in-law, Marnie Attardi, her role model. Marnie worked in a glove factory while raising her three children. She and her husband, Anthony, never owned a home, but now, through an organization called HeartShare Human Services, and contributions from Linda and Frank, there’s a residential home for developmentally disabled adults named in their honor. It’s in Frank’s home borough of Brooklyn, New York.”

I indicated the line of ingredients we’d be using, and picked up the bottle of marsala. “Now, the unusual thing about this recipe is that while it calls for wine, we don’t put the wine into the mix. We’ll be moistening our hands with it when we roll the meatballs.”

One of the boys started making hiccupping sounds and staggered in an imitation of someone drunk. The other children giggled until the boy’s mother tugged on his shirt sleeve and shushed him.

We always ate what we made in these classes. When the meatballs had been cooked and consumed, Eileen and I gathered up the used paper plates and plastic forks, dumped them into our trash bag, and set out fresh ones.

“Because this is a Mommy & Me class, what we’re going to do next is make two dishes from a Hollywood mother and daughter. One of my favorite actors was Richard Crenna. His widow, Penni, and their daughter, Seana, are terrific cooks and they’re sharing with us Penni’s Mexican Chicken Kiev and Seana’s Quiche.

“Seana told me that when she and her father ate her quiche together, she’d always leave the end of the crust on her plate. He would lean over, wink at her, and eat the leftover piece. It’s one of the little father-daughter moments she treasures.

“Now, the crust for this quiche can be bought ready-made at the market, but I’m going to show you how easy it is, and how much fun it is, to make your own crust using just flour, a little salt, some Crisco, and a few tablespoons of ice water. It’s my absolute favorite piecrust, and the recipe is right out of the Betty Crocker Cookbook. I recommend that everyone have the original Betty Crocker Cookbook in their kitchen libraries. Now, I have to warn you kids: You’re about to get a little messy.”

The children cheered at that. The women groaned.

“Don’t worry, moms. We have a big stash of Handi Wipes all ready for the cleanup later.”

Eileen and I passed around small bags of all-purpose flour, measuring cups, and mixing bowls. “Since a quiche uses only a single crust, let’s start by measuring out one cup of flour…”

By the time Seana Crenna’s Quiches were in the ovens, eight young faces were smudged and sixteen little hands were caked with flour. Eileen helped the mothers and the nanny wipe everyone clean and I started to organize the ingredients to make the final recipe of the class, Penni Crenna’s Mexican Chicken Kiev.

I was explaining that this was one of Richard Crenna’s favorite meals and that Penni frequently made it for their party guests, when I heard the door from the appliance shop open.

I looked up to see the petite figure of Yvette Dupree, the Global Gourmet, the woman Keith Ingram had mocked to me the night of the gala, the woman Eileen told me Ingram had despised.

Yvette Dupree was one of the people I was most eager to talk to. Now, before I could find her, she had found me.