Growing up, I’m sure I helped my mom in the kitchen.
I mean, I was second of nine kids…I’m sure she needed help from time to time. And really, how else would I have emerged into real life knowing how to make things like chicken cordon bleu and eggs Benedict?
But I don’t remember it. (Hmmm…that sounds familiar.)
I hope my kids will remember working in the kitchen together when they’re old and far away from life as it is right here, right now. I need help so I pull them in…peeling potatoes, creating new salads, trying new dessert recipes, or baking bread.
Sometimes they are grumpy and their help comes grudgingly. I pull it from them as they huff and puff about their “plight” in life…cooking with their mother
of all things, their slanted together eyebrows seem to say.
But most times when we cook together it’s like magic filters into our kitchen. Sundays are our big cooking days (we have a LOT of time after eight o’clock church). As we work side by side they spill out stories from school or church, things about their friends, or their random thoughts from the day. And as they do, the room fills up with the warmth of our love for each other.
After three weeks of trying new roll recipes we had a tasting contest and have found our favorite.
Yes, I hope they’ll remember even that.
But most of all I hope they’ll remember how much I loved having them work by my side.