For Passion’s Sake
If you’re wondering what would make Iron Chef Alex Guarnaschelli say, “I want to curl up in a dark room and cry,” you should really watch “The Worst Cooks in America” on Food Network. On the show, Alex and Chef Anne Burrell coach teams of misfits that have somehow made it through most of their adult lives having never navigated a kitchen. If your ego needs a pick-me-up, I guarantee this show will do it. Even if you possess only the most basic knowledge of food preparation, the contestants on this show will make you feel like a culinary expert. I’m consistently dumbfounded by how these fully grown, functioning adults, don’t even know how to hold a knife, dice an onion, or discern the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon. They rely on takeout, their microwave, or their MOM to fill their bellies each day and it’s horrifying.
Watching this show with my husband often triggers memories of our newlywed days, when I was nothing more than a “capable” chef and he couldn’t manage to produce anything beyond a quesadilla. (Not much has changed for him, except he’s added scrambled eggs and Bisquick pancakes and/or waffles to his shortlist of culinary accolades.) I had a few tried and true standby dishes, one of which was “Salsa Chicken,” (a humble chicken breast seasoned with a packet of taco seasoning, thrown in a dish, and sprinkled with Mexican Blend shredded cheese, then smothered in jarred salsa). I’m embarrassed to admit I genuinely thought that counted as Mexican food back in the day. Lord, (and all Tucsonans), forgive me. I’m grateful that time, practice, and many phone calls to my Mom helped me hone my skills, and I am now far more adventurous and successful in the kitchen.
Watching “The Worst Cooks in America” made me wonder how many of the contestants had parents who welcomed them into the kitchen to cook and learn alongside them. If you don’t grow up with someone teaching you basic measuring skills or how to read a recipe, it makes sense that you’d still be eating ramen in your 40s. I was blessed to have both parents and grandparents that took the time to share their knowledge and recipes with me as a child. I credit them for my love for cooking and for sharing food with my family and friends. There will always be certain smells in the kitchen and beloved recipes that bring me right back to standing on a step stool with an oversized apron around my middle, licking beaters and beaming with pride when the dish turned out just right. I want to create those same memories and teach those same skills to my kids. To do that, I need to sacrifice my need for control for the sake of instruction.
I’m a product of very organized, perfectionist, managerial type parents AND grandparents. They like things done a certain way. It’s no surprise I turned out just like them. That being said, they all welcomed me into their territory, the kitchen, with open arms. Now that I’m a mom, I fully understand how sacrificial that was. It’s hard to let go of control and allow your very independent child to take the whisk from your hand. It’s excruciating to let them crack the egg “all by myself” and watch tiny shards of shell sink deep into the batter. It’s almost unbearable to watch them over-pour every liquid and over-fill every measuring cup. But is there any better way to learn than through our mistakes? After all, it’s how I learned cookies need baking soda to become, well, cookies. It’s also how I learned aluminum foil should never go in the microwave, and glass bottles of wine shouldn’t be stored in the freezer (I’m still SO sorry, Dad)…. but I digress. If my parents and grandparents hadn’t shown patience and grace as they taught me how to fold, knead, beat and saute, not only would I have missed out on important life skills, I wouldn’t enjoy cooking for my family as much as I do.
My son is five years old, and ever since infancy, he’s been an enthusiastic eater. When we finally introduced him to “real” food, after months of formula feeding, he embraced every single puree with gusto. We were not surprised. To this day he has a very adventurous palate and has consistently maintained an insatiable appetite. (There is no plateau in sight, believe me, I’ve been watching the horizon for years.) When he was a toddler he began watching cooking shows and whipping up entrees in his Little Tikes kitchen, blending and baking up all kinds of plastic delicacies. My mom purchased him a subscription to monthly kids’ cooking kits and his dream of being a “tv chef” started to take shape. His kitchenware now occupies no less than 3 cabinets and 2 drawers in my kitchen and I’m convinced he owns more aprons than Bobby Flay. When I’m feeling especially “chill,” I’ll allow him to take over the kitchen and whip up his specialty, (raspberry coulis, in case you were wondering). Food and cooking are his passions. He has other interests, sure, but cooking is what lights him up inside. His smile is never brighter and his focus is never more intense than when he’s creating something in the kitchen.
It’s both inspiring and exhausting to have a 5-year-old who loves to cook. Fueling his fire and encouraging his dream means I need to learn to share my kitchen and resign to the fact that it will never truly be clean again. It means I need to include him in my menu planning, letting him choose recipes from his cookbooks and kits. It means I need to start preparing dinner at least 30 minutes earlier than usual to allow time to show him each step, wait on his slower motor skills, and clean up mistakes. It means I need to die to myself a little and let go of control, for the sake of supporting his passion. The other night he and I made Chinese Meatball Sliders with Pineapple Slaw for dinner, and they turned out just like the picture in his cookbook. He learned how to cut up a pineapple, use the food processor and peel a carrot all in one evening. He is capable, and I need to give him opportunities to prove it. (Dinner was delicious.)
Fueling our kids’ passions is often inconvenient. My 8-year-old daughter dreams of being both an animal rescuer and an architect. What this means for me is that my floors are constantly covered in Legos and my patio is littered with bug rescuing devices, many of them containing dead or dying insects. I don’t love it, but I allow it. Why? Because if I didn’t, her flame might go out. If I kick my son out of the kitchen every time I want to get dinner started, he might stop asking to help me. The day my kids stop saying, “Mom, watch this!” and “Mom, look at what I made!” will be a sad day for me, and I pray it won’t be because they didn’t think I cared enough to react. Last Halloween my son dressed as a chef, and as he stood there in his white hat and coat, holding a mixing bowl to collect his candy, I could just picture him hosting his own show and charming the audience with his gorgeous eyes and animated expressions. If his dream doesn’t come true, it won’t be because of me.
My husband recently launched a business as a strengths coach, helping people discover their passions and strengths so they can thrive in their environments of both work and home. He’s told me how often he encounters people who have made it to adulthood without knowing what they’re passionate about. They struggle to find something that ignites a spark in them. When we’re children, we all fixate on a certain career path, able to answer the all too common question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” But as we get older, we need someone to help fan our flame, encourage us and affirm us in the areas we’re strong. As parents, we can do that for our kids. We can rally support when they’re ready to throw in the towel. We can applaud their courage when they switch gears and choose a new, uncharted path. We can push our children to pursue their passions, whatever they are, no matter how inconvenient it may be for us.
The first time I ever made German pancakes for my daughter (a favorite family recipe, passed down from my Great Grandma Schesselman), was Christmas morning. I showed her how to beat the eggs in quick, rapid succession.
“How do you know how to do that?” she asked.
“My dad showed me,” I said.
And as I let her sift the flour into the bowl, (and all over the countertops), I smiled at the memory of doing the same thing with my Opa. The memory, and the lesson, were invaluable.
1989- Making German pancakes with my Opa
Great Grandma Schesselman’s German Pancakes
Beat 5 eggs. Stir in 1 t. salt and 2 c. milk. Sift in 1 c. flour, stirring with a whisk. Heat a non-stick skillet. Lightly oil. Put approximately 1/2 c. batter in hot skillet and tip pan to lightly coat. Flip when cooked on one side. Serve with desired toppings.