For as long as I can remember, I have loved to be in the kitchen. When I was in 1st grade, we lived in an old farmhouse that had an enormous kitchen. I loved poached eggs, and I would often help my mom make them. We had this nifty little insert that fit inside a saucepan, over boiling water. The eggs went in the depressions in the insert. You put on the lid and minutes later, perfectly poached eggs in the shape of little bowls. I had watched my mom do it so many times that I was able to convince her to let me do it on my own. I put the insert in the pan. I cracked the eggs into the openings. I put on the lid and set the timer. But when we took the lid off, they looked like they had spikes. They wouldn't come out of the holder. They smelled bad, almost burnt.
"Did you follow all the steps", my mom asked. I was sure that I had.
She removed the insert. The bottom pan was dry. Not one drop of water. I had forgotten the water! I destroyed the pan and ruined my breakfast, but it didn't keep me from trying to cook.
My mom had shorthand for measurements in her recipes; tsp (small t) meant teaspoon, TBSP (capital T) for tablespoon. I was pretty sure I knew the code. I had been working side-by-side with my mom. She taught me how to measure properly, making sure to level the tops of the measuring cups and spoons.
When I was in 2nd grade, I persuaded her to let me make cookies by myself. I wanted to make ginger snaps. I pulled the recipe card and gathered all my ingredients. I creamed the crisco and sugar until it was fluffy. I added the eggs, then the spices and flour. My dough was beautiful! I scooped it out onto the cookie sheets and baked them.
I took the cookies out. They smelled so good! I put them on napkins and took them to my mom and dad. My dad took a bite. He said they were a little spicier than usual. My mom took a bite. Her face said it all! I had dome something wrong. She asked to see the recipe. We went through each ingredient, with me telling her the measurement. Then it happened.
1 tsp ginger was written on the recipe card. One tablespoon of ginger is what I said. It looked like a capital T to me. It was a teaching moment and I didn't give up.
By the time I was in 4th grade I was making dinner for our family. Not every night, but I cooked a lot. I loved being in the kitchen. The creating, not the cleaning. But any mess I made was mine to clean up. It was the rule. I learned to clean up as I went. That made it easier.
My mom was a basic meat & potatoes and casserole cook. She cooked out of the necessity of feeding her family. She didn't like it. She loved to work in the yard. That was her happy place. I would often get out of yard work by offering to cook dinner. It was a win-win. My dad liked when I cooked because I would try new things. As long as I had a recipe, I had no limits.
I have never had fear in cooking. There have been times when the food didn't come out right. I just took a breath and tried another time.
Cooking and baking has become very therapeutic for me. I describe it as being "mindless". I'm able to immerse myself in thought while my hands go through the motions of creating. It's where I do some of my best processing, actually. Kneading dough. Mixing spices. Building my mis en place. There's a safety, a security there.
When I was raising my children, they wanted to be in the kitchen. I was too much of a control freak to let them do much. I taught them the basics of measuring and following recipes. But I did all the cooking, because I liked it.
We ate as a family every night, which was how both my husband and I were raised. I didn't realize how few of our kids' friends had that experience. Our kids loved to have their friends over for dinner. It kind of became my love language, feeding people.
My daughter liked to cook, but she moved out when she was 17. Most of her cooking refinement occurred when she didn't live with me. She wanted my recipes but wondered why they didn't taste like when I made them. I chalked it up to experience since I didn't have a better answer.
My son and his friends had some serious cooking sessions. They liked to experiment, to just see what would happen. They made messes and had mishaps, but it didn't deter them.
When my son was in high school, he got a job in a bakery. He, too, found solace in dough. His bread was perfection! No holes and beautiful texture.
After high school, my son went to pastry school. My heart swelled with pride! It was as if he was fulfilling my dream. He brought home delicious desserts every night. I was amazed at the delicate sugar and gum paste flowers he made with his big man hands.
Then he attended the Culinary Institute of America. Again, my heart swelled with pride. He had found his niche, and it made him so happy. When he'd come home to visit, my friends were amazed that I cooked for him instead of him showing us what he'd learned. He wanted mom's cooking. Sometimes things didn't go quite right, but he never criticized my cooking. If I asked questions, he would offer advice, but he never bought into it when people tried to get him to talk about my negatively.
My son is no longer in the food industry which, I'll admit, broke my heart a little bit. But seeing him happy in his profession as a mason brings me peace. His friends still love for him to cook for them, and so does his wife.
My daughter works in a grocery store as a cooking coach. She teaches people cooking techniques She can follow a recipe like nobody's business and has a great knack for putting flavors together. Feeding people is also her love language outside of work.
My children have both surpassed me in their cooking ability. It's a source of joy for me. But are they good cooks because I taught them? Am I a good cook because my mother taught me? Or is it innate? Did it flower just because we used it? I believe that pretty much anyone can be taught to follow a recipe, but it will taste completely differently when it's made with heart.
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