CHICAGO -- "I quit."

Lolita Watson-Bragg was at it again, doing what she says she always does. She quit high school two decades ago. She quit one low-paying job after another, never staying long enough to make much more than minimum wage. Now, not even halfway through a free, 12-week course training her to be a chef, she was throwing in her kitchen towel.

"I always quit," she told classmates. "I never finish anything."

Among her 16 classmates were an ex-con and single moms, the unemployed and underemployed, soup-kitchen regulars and homeless-shelter residents. All had signed up for a chefs' course taught at the Greater Chicago Food Depository, a nonprofit food bank, hoping to learn skills that could lead to steady work and a fresh start. They promised to carry each other to the finish.

Barely a month had passed before the first stumble. Mrs. Watson-Bragg, a 39-year-old mother of five, declared she was tired of fumbling with knives, struggling with metric conversions and rising before dawn to get to class. Fellow students exhorted her to stick with it. "We can get through this," said Cynthia Kiss, 49, unemployed and battling her own frustrations in the class.

The instructors insisted Mrs. Watson-Bragg think about it and come back the next day, if only to say goodbye.

The students had embarked on a culinary boot camp called Community Kitchens. The program aimed to teach the basics of cooking -- slicing, dicing, sizing, baking, fricasseeing -- with the goal of landing each one a job. But more important than knife skills were life skills: responsibility, punctuality, teamwork, commitment. Some would learn those better than others.

Since the Chicago Food Depository opened in 1978, its main mission has been to feed the hungry. This year, more than 40 million pounds of donated food will move through its freezers and storage halls on the way to 600 groups feeding nearly 500,000 people around the city.

In 1998, borrowing a concept originated at a Washington, D.C., soup kitchen, the Chicago Food Depository offered its first chef-training class. "We don't only want to feed the hungry. We want to end hunger," says Michael Mulqueen, then the Food Depository's executive director. "And you won't begin to solve the hunger problem unless you get people jobs."

Government attempts to train low-skilled workers so they can get better jobs date back at least to the 1960s. But such programs took on new importance after the 1996 welfare-reform law forced many welfare recipients to find work at the risk of losing benefits and set firm limits on how long others could remain on welfare. Concern that many people would be left without support led to an increase in private funding for job-training programs.

Last year, there were 30 chef-training classes, with a total of about 1,000 students, at food banks across the country affiliated with America's Second Harvest, a national network of food banks. Second Harvest estimates the cost per student averages about $4,000, funded mainly by donations from corporations, foundations and individuals.

Nationwide, these classes graduated 775 students last year. According to Second Harvest, about 70 percent have a job within one month, and more than 65 percent retain their first job for at least six months. In a survey of students in the 2004 classes, 22 percent were homeless when they started the course, and 44 percent were on food stamps.

"For those who succeed," says Kate Maehr, the Chicago Food Depository's current executive director, "this is the beginning of the end of the cycle of poverty."

Success is far from guaranteed. Typically, about one-quarter of students don't make it to graduation. Many run afoul of the attendance rule: Four tardies or absences and you're out. Some falter during weekly tests. Others crack under the pressure of learning new skills while also helping the Food Depository prepare about 1,500 meals every day. These dinners are served to children from low-income families in after-school programs around the city.

The 17 students who arrived July 5 for the first day of class were already survivors. Eighty-four people had contacted the depository about taking the course. More than half never showed up for their interview. Of the 38 who made it through the interview, 20 were dropped during a battery of tests and a three-day kitchen trial, designed to weed out those with ambivalent commitment. Then a single dad struggling to find work as an electrician didn't show up for class because he got a last-minute work call and couldn't pass up the pay.

"When you're out there working and you're 15 minutes late, I'm already calling someone to do your job," executive chef instructor Lisa Gershenson told the class the first day. The students, wearing white chefs' jackets, gathered in a kitchen classroom. The aroma of breakfast muffins mixed with the smell of spices. "There's always somebody right behind you," she said, "waiting to take your job."

Co-instructor Jenny Urban, a culinary-school graduate who at 26 was younger than most of the pupils, said, "Look around this room. We're your support system, not only for the next 12 weeks, but for your life."

Mrs. Watson-Bragg, a boisterous woman who asked everyone to call her "Lo," waved her hand. "I need to pay a bill," she said. "Can you help me out?"

The room erupted in laughter. Ms. Urban laughed, too. "That's a good example," she said. "When you're handling 100 pounds of chicken, we don't want you breaking down because you're worried about paying a bill. Discuss it with us."

One of the students' first assignments: write a letter to yourself about what you want to accomplish in the class, and seal the envelope. The letters were locked away in a metal filing cabinet.

Ms. Urban stood at a table and demonstrated basic cutting techniques on vegetables. "Be loose," she said, "be relaxed." Some students watched her movements directly, others followed her actions in an overhead mirror.

Then the students made their first tentative slices. Nervous murmurs about chopping fingers rippled through the group. "Tip down, follow through," Ms. Urban said. "You probably want to use your hands later in life, so take care of them."

Jalita Williams, who had used her last unemployment check to move to Chicago from Detroit, diced an onion. She recalled marveling at the flashy blade work on the Food Network and wondering, "Wouldn't it be great if I could marry a chef?" Instead, she signed up for the class to become one. Calvin Cooper, towering over classmates at 6 feet 6 inches, relished the chance to learn a new skill, after spending time in prison on drug and burglary charges. "I just turned 45 and I'm trying to get 20 years in a field I can really enjoy," he said, finishing up a zucchini.

Mrs. Watson-Bragg, reaching for a turnip, said she was hoping to overcome a fear of knives that made her tentative even in her own kitchen. She had moved through a series of jobs, at a department store, a cleaning company and a fast-food joint. "That's the way I am," she said. Now she worked as a "lunch lady" at a public school cafeteria for about $10 an hour. When she heard a woman at her church talk about the chefs' class, she jumped at the chance, hoping to apply for the position of head chef at the school. She also wanted to prove to herself and her family that she could finish something she started.

Mastering knives, she determined, would be the first step. "It's because you are afraid," one of the veteran workers in the food-bank kitchen told her. "Once you get over your fear, you'll be great."

A week later, Ms. Gershenson glanced at the clock and shouted, "Let's go. We've got 175 people about to hit the buffet line in 15 minutes." The students were putting the finishing touches on a lunch for a conference on food-bank operations.

Ms. Gershenson, 56, is a counselor and cheerleader for the students as well as teacher. They call her Chef Lisa. A veteran of the Chicago culinary scene, she was at the top of the food chain, owning a company that often catered to the well-to-do. But after 14 years of conjuring up $150-a-plate meals for finicky clients, she says, "I was so burned out amusing jaded palates."

She and her husband sold their company and she eventually accepted an offer to plan nutritious meals for a public school. One day, she came by the Food Depository to consult on its search for a new chef. She peered into the kitchen, and saw the students cooking for low-income children. She took the head chef job herself.

"The joy of making healthy, simple food for hungry kids was the perfect antidote for my cynicism of being a chef," she says. "It's taken me by surprise to see how meaningful this job is to me."

Ms. Gershenson admired the hustle of her students, who were working with ingredients many had never tasted, or even pronounced. "Hoisin sounds like poison, but, of course, it's not," said Ms. Williams as she spread a Chinese Hoisin sauce with garlic and ginger on chicken breasts. Samuel Pullen, 26, examined odd-shaped morel mushrooms. "Morel," he said, working on the pronunciation. "I've never eaten 'em, never seen 'em, never spoke 'em."

After cooking, the students manned the buffet line as servers. "I want to see smiles," Ms. Gershenson said, "not anxiety."

Mrs. Watson-Bragg beamed as she chatted with guests. Her classmate Mrs. Kiss, through a more dutiful smile, admitted the class was fraying her nerves. "The math is tough," she said while spooning out broccoli. "You're converting measurements, working with fractions. It's been a long time since I was in school."

Mrs. Kiss had already missed one day of class while sorting out her housing. She and her husband, a truck and van driver, moved into an inexpensive hotel after he had his hours reduced. "Suddenly we couldn't afford the apartment anymore," she said. "You know how it can all go downhill quickly."

She had largely been struggling on the edge of poverty since graduating from a Chicago high school in 1976. She cared for her sick mother and then for younger siblings. She held jobs as a waitress and at a dry cleaner, but had been out of work for a couple of years, and, at times, on the receiving end at food pantries. Her husband started the chefs' class earlier in the year, but dropped out when he got work as a driver. Now, Mrs. Kiss tried it, hoping it would lead to steady work, maybe as a pastry chef.

"Instead of going into a kitchen and asking to work as a dishwasher, I could go and work as a chef," she said. "There will be a lot more I can do in a kitchen than busting suds."

After the luncheon, Ms. Urban gathered the students. "I was proud that I saw most of us kicking it up a notch," she said. "There's always going to be a couple of bumps along the way, but just fix it. Don't stress, just fix it."

Mrs. Watson-Bragg led a round of high-fives. "This is exciting," she said. "We're putting into practice what we're learning." Many students wrapped up leftovers to take home for their families.

At 7 one morning, students met in the kitchen storage room to brush up for a test on cooking utensils. Amid the aromas of chopped chives, Hungarian paprika and ground ginger, Ms. Urban drilled pupils on woks, saute pans, bain-maries and China caps.

"You may have test anxiety," she said, "but you will conquer that in this class."

It was clear that some hadn't when a disappointed Ms. Gershenson handed back math tests later that morning. "There's a lot of 50 percents," she said. She went to the blackboard to review problems: "One pound equals 16 ounces, so two and three-quarter pounds is what?" The room was silent as she worked through the equation: "2.75 times 16 equals 44."

Ms. Gershenson said she would go to a dollar store and buy pocket calculators for the students. Denise Richardson, a 39-year-old single mother who has been homeless and unemployed in the last year, said she would bring in her babysitter's old sixth-grade math book. "It's got metric tables that will help us with the conversions," she told classmates.

Mrs. Kiss wasn't so sure. "This is the same as in high school," she told the class. "I'd be all prepared at home, then when the test papers were in front of me, it'd all be gone."

By the end of July, one student was close to being dropped from the class. Khadzja Farmer-Ingram, who had ambitions to cater dinners in her Islamic community, had been late three times. She plotted a strategy with Ms. Gershenson so it wouldn't happen again: One, don't go back to bed after getting up for morning prayers. Two, check at night that the car is full of gas. Three, be ready to take public transport if her husband can't drive her to class.

The early mornings, the daily demands of the kitchen, the cramming for tests were taking a toll. Mrs. Kiss stood before the class one day to apologize for missing the two previous days with migraine headaches. "I'm sorry," she said. "You've had to do my work." Ms. Gershenson thought she was putting too much pressure on herself. "It's stressful for her," she says. "She's a hard worker who really wants this." Mrs. Kiss was getting good at baking, but still struggling with sizing the recipes.

"We're hanging in, barely, but we're making it," Mrs. Watson-Bragg said. She was showing up every day and passing tests, always ready with a word of encouragement or a joke. She often glibly said she signed up for the course only "because it's free." Her carefree nature "keeps everyone in their place," said Ms. Gershenson.

One day, Mrs. Watson-Bragg slid a big tray of macaroni and cheese out of the oven, a meal for the children. One of the instructors asked what ingredient she had used. "Beck. ... Bechhhhh ... ," Mrs. Watson-Bragg said. She checked her notebook: "Bechamel!"

Next, she turned to whipping cream in a silver bowl. "I've never made whipped cream from scratch," she said. "I don't know what's in there. I'm just whipping."

Because she was the class cut-up, some fellow students thought she was joking when, after a computer lesson at the end of one day, Mrs. Watson-Bragg stood up and blurted: "I quit."

"What are you talking about?" a classmate demanded. "You don't quit."

Mrs. Watson-Bragg, tears welling in her eyes, said she was tired of the hours and frustrated at having to learn so much so quickly.

Other students tried to encourage her, noting she had already completed five weeks. The instructors said she needed to think it over. "It's customary to give two weeks notice," Ms. Urban said. "So consider this the beginning of your two weeks."

That night, Mrs. Watson-Bragg told her family she wanted to give up. They were stunned. Her husband, who works at an elevator manufacturer, had supported her quest. She had preached the value of education to her five children, the oldest of whom is now in college. "Ma, you better not quit," she recalls one of her sons saying. "You quit everything, but not this time."

After a restless night, she returned to the kitchen at 7 a.m. An envelope was waiting for her. It was the letter Mrs. Watson-Bragg had written to herself at the start of the course.

She cried when she saw it. She didn't even open it, but just read the words she had scribbled on the envelope. "Don't give up," she had written on the front. And on the back, "Believe in yourself, you can do it."

She told the instructors, and then, to cheers, her classmates: She wouldn't quit. The class would stay together.

Big hurdles remained -- especially the state sanitation test. The exam tests students on food handling, personal hygiene and kitchen safety. Passing it is a course requirement, and the certificate offers a leg up in getting a job.

Mrs. Kiss worried she might not make it. "I'm having nightmares over this test," she said. "If I don't make it, I'll always be wondering 'What if?' Wouldn't that be a horrible thing? I don't want to be 70 and saying 'What if? What if I had passed that test? What if I had completed that class?'"

The kitchen classroom shook with whooping and hollering on the afternoon of Aug. 15. The sanitation-test scores were in and certificates were handed out. Mrs. Watson-Bragg did a little dance, holding her certificate over her head.

Mrs. Kiss sat quietly. She was the only one who didn't pass. As she left at the end of the day, Ms. Gershenson gave her a hug. "It's a real blow to her," the chef said. "I'd hate for anyone not to finish the class."

Even the chef was feeling the pressure. "I'm starting to panic a little, whether we have enough time left to teach them everything they need to know."

Mrs. Kiss skipped a couple of classes, then got a sinus infection and missed more. Ms. Gershenson told her she was missing too much time and would have to leave the course.

"When I didn't pass the test, it hit hard," Mrs. Kiss says. "I felt really bad and angry at myself. I was just beating myself up." But she told herself she might enroll again. "Maybe then I won't be so uncertain," she says. On the first day of class, she recalls, "it was like walking into a dark cave with no lights." Perhaps the next time, "the cave will have lights."

On Aug. 25, the teaching kitchen was transformed into a fine dining emporium. Halibut soaked up a sherry sauce. Scallops wore a bacon wrap. Belgian chocolate oozed from a cake. Preparing a sit-down meal for 40 Food Depository staff members, the students came up with the recipes, then did the cooking with help from the teaching staff.

As noon approached, Ms. Gershenson urged the students to clean up the kitchen. "You can't serve beautiful food from a dirty place," she said.

Mrs. Watson-Bragg wore a big smile as she helped clean. A few days earlier, she had been the first student in the class to be offered a new job: head cook in the cafeteria of Richard J. Daley Academy, an elementary school in the Chicago public system. She would earn nearly $3 an hour more than she had as a lunchroom attendant at the school. "Now I'm real glad I didn't quit," she said.

Three of the original 17 students didn't graduate on Sept. 22. Besides Mrs. Kiss, one student didn't return for the final week of class. Ms. Farmer-Ingram was dropped after missing too many classes while recovering from a cut palm suffered in class that required stitches.

The other 14 donned white stovepipe chef's hats for the first time, while family and friends applauded. Ms. Williams hugged her three daughters. "I wish they all could take this course," she said. "Then I'd know they always have the skills for work."

Mr. Cooper, speaking on behalf of the class, told the crowd how they made it to the finish line. Glancing at Mrs. Watson-Bragg, he said, "We took care of each other." Of the 14 graduates, 12 have found jobs.

Just before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Kiss, who is now living in a shelter, returned to the Food Depository kitchen. She came to work as a volunteer. She has enrolled in the next chefs' course, which begins in January. "I'm finally going to finish what I started here," she says.