I’ve let my oldest daughter loose in the kitchen. We’re having a great time together. It’s messy, a little inconvenient, and time consuming, but cooking with my daughter is one of my favorite activities as a mom.
I’m passing something on; it feels like we’re participating in the ancient rhythms of hearth and home.
We’re learning a whole new vocabulary of verbs: strain, simmer, sauté. We’re grasping the fine distinctions between chop, dice, and mince. We’re discovering you can add too much and too little.
We listen to Broadway musicals on Pandora. She turns the music up way too loud for me, but I remember that I’m older and she’s younger. I think I know every word to every song in Wicked.
So far, we’ve mastered apple pie, apple turnovers, various stir-fry recipes (with various sauces–her favorite is ginger peanut), homemade butter, and potato and bacon soup. After school, we’re learning Swedish Pancakes from her American Girl Kirsten cookbook.
I have to relax my controlling urges and let kitchen art happen. Once she learned how to hold a knife and how not to catch herself on fire, she was good to go. It’s worth it. Last night we ate a delicious soup with fresh bread that I didn’t invent or carry out.
Let them cook.