The Cook

I was fortunate to be raised by parents who understood the need for children to feel proud of themselves and to also feel they were contributing to the family.  My mother worked outside of the home in a time when most mothers were stay-at-home moms.  My father was very supportive and we understood from an early time that her job meant we would have more "things" but would also mean she would not be doing all of the household chores.  That meant that my sister and I would be expected to pick up the slack.  So we could often be found folding clothes, dusting, or running the sweeper, among other chores.

My mother would work until five o'clock then stop by her parent's to see if they needed anything and check on them.  It was unusual if she arrived home before six o'clock.  Since I had always loved being in the kitchen and helping cook, she soon had me starting a few things before she got home.  I would peel potatoes, set the table, or put on a pot of green beans.  She gradually taught me more and more until I was preparing most of the meal with instructions over the phone. 

The next step was to turn supper over to me completely.  She established a meal plan - a meat, two vegetables and a salad- then gave me freedom to decide from there.  I had to get approval of my meals but she rarely criticised, rather she would make a suggestion or recommendation.  I'll have to say, my family was remarkably tolerant, considering that at 12 or 13 years old my ideas of taste were a little unformed. 

The first time I decided to make a chicken dish that required cutting up a whole chicken was an experience.  Before she left for work, mother drew me a diagram of how to cut each piece, explaining how it would be done.  I arrived home from school and blithely started to cut up my chicken.  Getting the wings off was easy.  The legs were a bit more of a challenge, but soon they were in a drumstick and thigh.  I wrestled the remaining carcass around the kitchen for a while, making lots of pokes but little progress.  In desperation I called her at work.  "Help!"  I sputtered, "this thing has about beat me to a draw!".  She laughed and began to "talk" me through the process of separating the back from the breast and then splitting the breast into halves.  I have seldom been so proud of any accomplishment as I was of those mangled chicken pieces.  To this day when I cut up a chicken, I can hear her voice in my ear explaining each step.

What my parents gave me wasn't just a love of cooking that has endured to this day, but rather a sense of worth and accomplishment.  At a time when my friends were still whining about having to make their beds, I was preparing meals for my family.  It was with a great sense of pride that I would leave my friends giggling and sipping cokes at the drugstore because I had to get home to start supper.  I felt needed as a contributing part of the family.  My mother never missed an opportunity to tell her friends how much she relied on her girls to help her out, making us feel ten feet tall.  I can never remember feeling that we were forced or nagged into helping.  My parents were able to make us understand the need of every person to work and help each other out.  They also understood the need of every child to feel important and special. 

Thanks, mom, for teaching me the joy of working and giving to my family.