In the last post, I discussed cooking as an expression of love. In this post I am going to share with you why teaching your children to cook is a gift. In fact, after today’s post you will realize that teaching your children how to cook is the gift that keeps on giving.
Pancakes I made for my son.
A Long Time Ago In A Galaxy Far Far Away
Although it occurred thirty-seven years ago, it seems like only yesterday. One Sunday morning during the spring of 1976, I arose from bed expecting this particular Sunday morning to be just like all the previous Sunday mornings.
As was my routine, I would get out of bed and lethargically walk to the bathroom. Then as all ten year old boys do, I proceeded – reluctantly I might add – to brush my teeth, wash my face and hands. After the parental mandated hygienics were completed, I would exit the bathroom door to the wonderful sound of sausage sizzling in a pan and to the unmistakable aroma of pancakes being flipped on a skillet.
Except on this particular morning, when I walked out of the bathroom having completed my part of what I considered one of life’s most important mother-son rituals, there was absolute silence. And the only scent that I smelled was fresh mint which lingered from my recently but dentist certified – inadequately brushed teeth.
CSI Gary, Indiana
I wondered what in the world was going on. Was my mother sick or worse? Starving and starting to get perturbed by the obvious deviation in the mother-son ritual, I did what every ten year old boy would do. I sat quietly for as long as possible which was about a full minute before I decided to play detective.
Not knowing what else to do, I sat on the steps leading to my parent’s bedroom. I gently crept up to the top step outside my parents’ bedroom. I pressed my ear to the door to investigate if I could hear any movement. There was none. I silently slid down a few steps to a position where I could look under the door attempting to see if I saw shadows lurking about or movement of any kind. Almost simultaneously, as I was positioning my body to look under the door, it happened. An encounter that changed my life forever.
My Life Would Never Be the Same
The door suddenly opened and standing at the top step was not my mother but my father. I might add an unpleasantly surprised and extremely displeased father. “Boy”, he asked, “what are you doing sitting on MY steps?” (MY is capitalized to denote that my father was fond of reminding me that everything belonged to him. His discussion of everything was unlike the wonderfully tender conversation from the Lion King when Mufasa tells Simba “everything the light touches is our kingdom”. In the case of my father, everything to him meant that ALL rooms, ALL electronics and ALL appliances associated with his light bill were under his kingdom).
Knowing my father all too well, I thought long and hard about how best to answer his query. I had to choose my words very carefully as any discussion with him was equal to arguing before the Supreme Court. I might add, far too often and unfortunately for me, there was no higher court of which I could appeal. Unless of course, you consider as an appeal – the many times where I begged for belt leniency and a shortened period of punishment.
Ain’t We Lucky We Got ‘Em…Good Times
Recognizing fully who my father was and the potential for a sore backside and a lengthy punishment, I decided against my Michael Evans response. As much as I wanted to start my explanation with “Daddy, boy is a white racist word!” – I remembered Michael Evans was a fictitious character from Good Times and my dad’s belt was – well – (my) butt certifiably real. So instead, I simply stated that I was waiting for “my momma” to make breakfast.
Then it happened. No, thank God my dad did not tell me to go get my belt. Instead, he asked me one question, made two statements and gave one mandate that profoundly changed my life. The question was “Boy can you read?” My answer was yes. The first of his two statements were 1) if you can read, you can cook and 2) go down stairs to the kitchen, read the instructions on the packages of the food you want to eat and cook them yourself. The mandate was “get off of my steps and don’t ever let me catch you on them again”.
Aunt Jemima and Jimmy Dean
The rest they say is history. I went down stairs to the kitchen, pulled out the box of Aunt Jemima pancake mix from the cabinet, read the instructions and prepared the pancake batter. I opened the refrigerator, grabbed the Jimmy Dean sausage, read the instructions and prepared the sausage. The first pancake I made was too light and the second was too dark. Almost as if I had been cast as Goldilocks in a deleted scene from the story Goldilocks and the Three Bears, the third pancake was just right.
A half hour or so after the question, the two statements and mandate, my father came down stairs to check on me. By the time he arrived, I was well into devouring my first taste of manly independence. He stood in the entry way of the kitchen watching me eat with his customary smirk. Although on this day it wasn’t the scornful, condescendingly self-righteous smirk that I had become so accustomed to seeing. On this morning, the smirk was one of pride and satisfaction.
If You Can Read…
My father said but one additional thing as he stood in the kitchen doorway. He said, “See I told you if you can read you can cook, if you can read you can do anything”.
On that day, I learned many things about being independent. From that Sunday morning episode thirty-seven years ago and subsequent experiences in the kitchen, I’ve learned that all children if they are truly going to be independent would benefit greatly if they learn to cook. The following are but a few of the countless benefits of cooking and the independence it promotes:
- Confidence. When I got to college knowing how to cook made me vastly more confident. I was prepared to do what so many of my classmates were not capable of doing. Among those things was knowing how to prepare a nutritious meal on Sunday evenings without having to order the customary Sunday pizza, drive for fast food or worse wait on the cafeteria to open Monday morning. I knew what so many of my classmates did not know or believe. I knew that I was going to succeed – earn my degree – because I had learned as a ten year old that if I could read…I could do anything.
- Sexy. Being able to prepare meals for myself separated me from the “momma’s boys” and male chauvinists. Knowing how to cook allowed me to be able to invite a woman to dinner and not have her concerned about whether we were “going Dutch”. In most cases, my invite would be the first time where my date could sit back and relax knowing that someone else was preparing a meal aimed at appealing to heart through her stomach. When I was younger, I was fond of saying to every woman that I met that I did not know a woman who could cook better than me. Turned out that this statement was not only a challenge but a great first date tactic.
- Reliable. On those Sunday evenings in college, being able to cook extended the level to which others relied on me. People knew that I would always be preparing something home cooked and tasty. My room became the place to be as people so often congregate where good food is prepared and served.
- Autonomy. Learning to cook and becoming proficient taught me – as I first experienced that great Sunday morning – that I did not need others to do for me that which I could learn to do for myself. I learned that I was better off and able to make sounder decisions when I was not forced to rely on other people. Learning to cook revealed to me that not only did I not have to eat what others ate or go where others went to eat, it showed me that I could do whatever I wanted to do with or without the permission of or reliance on others.
Food for thought: Are you preparing your children to be independent or dependent on others?