Lately, whenever I’m in the kitchen preparing dinner, Maddie and Warren are right there with me. I call them my little sous chefs, though by definition I suppose they’ll eventually have to fight for the title.
Often times they are pulling out my unused pots and pans or rummaging through my utensil drawers for the ladles and turkey baster and other fun gadgets. They place the works on the floor and pretend they are concocting exotic dishes like soup and oatmeal. I’m always asked to sample. My right as head chef, of course.
Sometimes they actually want to assist me with the real deal. I don’t mind. They’ll pull up two chairs and help me spread sauce over the pizza dough or stir the pot of beans. It generally means that they also take a cut from the ingredients. I can only assume it’s quality control.
My mom gave me a strong foundation for cooking and taught me many useful skills in the kitchen. And I loved every minute of it. I hope I can do the same for my four.