In our house, we eat a lot of salads. This is not because we are so health conscious –although I would love to pretend we are- but because there’s therapeutic value in chopping things into very small, bite-size pieces. There may be lots of things I have no control over, but at least I can decimate a bell pepper. In addition to this, we don’t eat out very often; instead, we cook.
Recently, my daughter Isabella has been getting in on the act. She wants to cut stuff up, too. With a knife. After careful deliberation, I’ve decided to let her. She’ll need to learn to cook eventually; we might as well start now. Watching a second grader handle a sharp knife is not for the faint of heart, and I have to force myself to actually look at her slicing the celery into chunks. Big chunks.
I hate big chunks; the only reason I allow celery anywhere near my salad is because I can cut it so thin it’s almost unnoticeable. Isabella, enthusiastic as she is, does not yet grasp the concept of ‘very thin’. She also doesn’t want to cut her finger, which I guess is reasonable. Holding the celery with my left hand, and holding her hand on the knife with my other hand, I teach her how to cut slowly. “Do you feel my finger?” I ask, and she says “no” and almost cuts it off. I decide it might be safer to let her try this entirely on her own. I’ll cut the big chunks up later, after she’s lost interest and has gone back to playing.
Why do young children like the idea of making food so much? Is it because things get messy, and they hardly ever have to clean up afterwards? Our four year old has a little pan in which he claims to cook matzah balls at least once a day. He is very demanding, and makes us all sit down and pretend to eat. He brings out plates, spoons, and tells us where to sit. Then he looks expectantly at us, waiting for the appropriate response.
“They’re wonderful!” we all exclaim, telling him they’re the best matzah balls we’ve ever tasted. What would he do, I wonder, if one of these days, we’d all tell him that they’re undercooked? That they taste like dirty socks, that he must have gotten the recipe wrong? Would he acknowledge that there are no real matzah balls, and that he was just pretending, or would he genuinely feel hurt?
Not that we’d ever try this out, of course; still, I’m happy that, these days, my daughter is enjoying prepping some actual food. Even if the celery ends up mangled, even if a simple peanut butter sandwich leaves every surface in my kitchen with a sticky, smelly film afterwards. Even if she doesn’t put the lid back on things, even if she pours more milk on the counter than in the glass because the jug is too heavy. I think, if we keep guiding her, and we keep eating those pretend matzah balls, my children might just grow up to believe that cooking is much more than going to the drive through at the local burger place. Not that I have anything against that, mind you.
For some great resources about cooking with your kids, check out family fun, spatulatta (my favorite!), or amazing moms
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