LITMIR.BIZ

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and it was then I realized how much kitchen equipment I had. If this kitchen couldn’t accommodate it all, no kitchen ever would. It was a good excuse to weed out things I didn’t use.

      With most things in place, I prepared to cook our first meal in the kitchen, which we would all eat at the central island. It was exciting, wonderful, completely disconcerting. I grated raw beets and tossed them with a vinaigrette, then made a simple, herb-rich potage with leeks, carrots and potatoes, garnished with minced parsley and garlic from the garden. It took me twice as long as usual because I couldn’t put my hands on anything quickly, but how luxurious it felt to work in a place where I could stretch out my arms and not touch the wall, where the sink was handy and there was ample counter space, where the wood floor was easy on my legs and back, and where I didn’t have to use any of the economy of motion I’d mastered in my other kitchen. Here, everyone in the neighbourhood could come and cook and we’d all have our own spot.

      I served the salad on my side of the island as Michael, Joe, Fiona and Paige, the American woman, sat and watched from the other side. It was wonderful to be so easily together in such a huge space with a gorgeous stove to cook on. Michael and I looked at each other. It had been a long and difficult process for both of us to get to this point. We’d left our country with, on my part, a dream to live in France and raise our children, write books, even open up a cooking school, and on Michael’s part a willingness to put his career aside for the time it took to make it happen.

      We’d had several kitchens in our life together, most of them either designed and built by Michael or remodelled by him, but this was our first that was intended for teaching, and included every detail that we could possibly have thought of to make that efficient, comfortable, pleasant. The struggle to get this kitchen built was still fresh in our minds, but we both knew that it would fade and that we were in for some wonderful times and delicious meals. I, who love the kitchen more than any spot on earth, knew I was in for some exhilarating moments, which, I hoped, I would be able to share not just with my family and friends, but with people eager to learn the secrets of French cooking. Here we were, unbelievably, all of us together, in the heart of our beautiful new kitchen.

      I had decided to give myself about six months in the new kitchen before teaching any classes, because I figured it would take me that long to become accustomed to working in it. I couldn’t risk any fumbles for the classes – I had to be smooth, at ease and professional. So I established the dates for two classes the following spring, and I sent out another mailing to publicize them. I also investigated getting a website, but I found the venture beyond my budget. Besides, I was sceptical about websites. Internet access in France was problematic, and every single thing took so much time that I didn’t have the patience for it: sitting and staring into a screen has never been my forté. I supposed that most people were like me, and that websites were a ‘must have’ because of their novelty, not their real usefulness.

      My ideas were changed by two wonderful lunch guests who came, ate, and fell in love – with the house, with the food, with what we were trying to do, and with baby Fiona. Both high-level professionals, they were alight with ideas on how to market the school, and both were adamant that it, and I, needed a website. I told them my opinions. They disagreed, vehemently.

      Glo, one of the women, fixed me with a gaze as stern as that of an owl and said, ‘Susan, I’m here to tell you that if you don’t have “.com” after your name in the States you are nothing.’ I flinched, told her thank you, and said I still didn’t think I needed a website.

      She badgered me about it for a while, then let the subject drop for the remainder of our lunch together. On her return to the United States she started sending me emails. ‘Susan, you need a website, you’ve got to have one, you are no one without one,’ she would write, along with her cheery messages filled with news and jokes. She was a great person and I appreciated her enthusiasm and concern, but I couldn’t have cared less. I didn’t have the wherewithal to develop a website, and I didn’t think I needed one. If that made me a nobody, so be it. Then one day I opened my email messages to find the following from Glo. ‘Susan, since you are so stubborn, I’m doing a website for you. My friend Geoff will design the site. He charges $4000 and he says he’ll trade you for cooking classes. I will too. We don’t care if you don’t want it, we’re doin’ it.’

      I was flabbergasted. I read on. She explained how it would go, how she would help design it and write the copy. She would pass everything to me for approval before it went ‘live’. Glo had pinned me to the floor. I capitulated, succumbing to the force of her energy.

      I ended up spending a month working on the website with Glo and Geoff, answering a million questions, writing and rewriting, choosing photographs and graphic styles. It was exciting, like writing and publishing a book, with all the attendant satisfaction and anticipation. By the end of the process the three of us were fast friends, and I had a gorgeous, user-friendly website. I couldn’t imagine who would go there, but now at least I could put a ‘.com’ after my name. I was somebody!

      I now had a key marketing tool in place to test with the restaurant group, who had asked if I would host more of their managers. Naturally I agreed, and when they came back to me with questions about myself, my work, the school, where they could stay (I had posted photographs and information about my chosen four places on the site), I sent them to susanloomis.com. The response was miraculous; I didn’t have to spend any more time answering questions, and when they arrived they were fully informed about my work, the cooking school and me.

      I felt extremely fortunate to be trying out the new kitchen on these restaurant managers who would, I was sure, be as open and easy-going as the first group had been. That group had loved working in the makeshift kitchen; this group would have all the advantage of working in the finished kitchen. If there were a few stumbles or some head-scratching about where to find this or that, it wouldn’t matter.

      By the time they arrived I’d augmented my equipment. A friend of mine, Barbara Tropp, a wonderful Chinese cook who lived in San Francisco, sent me a dozen great, lightweight chef’s knives. I found some very good quality copper pans at a shop near Louviers for ridiculously low prices, and purchased multiples of the most useful sizes. I’d augmented my utensils and cutting boards, and I’d found beautiful long white aprons as well. I was all ready to go.

      There were sixteen managers and I paired them up to cook. I couldn’t believe how well we all fitted in the kitchen: there was room to work, room for me to circulate among the couples and guide them, room to arrange the cheese tray off in a corner, to roll out pastry, to open wine. Not only was there room, but the lighting Michael had installed could be modulated to fit the occasion. We went from laboratory bright while preparing the meal to cosy intimate while we stood around the tidied-up island with our aperitifs, a fire roaring in the background.

      From cooking in the new kitchen to eating in the dining room, everything worked so well, so smoothly and so effortlessly. No one could possibly know all the planning, dreaming, and plain hard work that had gone into the smooth flow of food from kitchen to table. I was so proud of Michael, and I knew that our cooking school was going to be a well-organized and luxuriously comfortable success, thanks to the setting he had provided.

      Filled with confidence, I scheduled a class for the following spring, and hoped it would fill. I knew I had to do some marketing, so I had a brochure printed up that explained the school, and sent it out to friends, colleagues and the editors I’d worked for over the years, hoping they would all get behind the project and spread the word. I announced the opening of the school on the website, then I crossed my fingers. Meanwhile, we had to celebrate the kitchen and ‘pendre la crèmaillère’, or ‘hang the soup pot’, the French expression for a house-warming. Everyone we knew had become intimately acquainted with this massive project, and they all wanted to experience the results. I invited our friends, our neighbours, Fiona’s various babysitters, Joe’s friends and their parents, who had kept an eye on progress while they dropped off or picked up their children, until we had at least fifty people on the guest list. The party was to be casual, and I wanted it to be a surprise for Michael. I made lots of appetizers, among them a favourite of Michael’s: wild boar rillettes. My vegetarian friend Babette had offered to come cook with me, and when Michael saw her in the kitchen helping me with

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