Blog Post #1

Cooking as a family is one of the greatest memories a child can have. The warmth and love that emanates from the kitchen will permeate the child’s memories, forever reminding them of the good, simple times; the times when life consisted of nothing more than having fun, of loving unconditionally, and of living in the moment. When these memories are formed as a child, the adult version will forever be able to look back and smile, rejoicing in the little things that life had to offer, the little things that make living a hectic life worthwhile.

When I was a child, I loved to be in the kitchen when my father was making breakfast. Every Sunday he would make a huge breakfast for the family. The breakfast would always vary depending on what he felt like making at the time. Sometimes it would be omelets, other times fried eggs. There could be pancakes, waffles, or biscuits. There would be sausage or bacon or corn beef hash. Always a side of fruit was present, courtesy of my mother. This tradition of Sunday morning breakfasts had been around as long as I could remember. The times I most distinctly remember are those when I was finally old enough to be of some help! I could finally get off the sidelines and take part in the wonderful creations my father was making. I was around five at the time, so I really was not that much of a help, but I was determined to learn, determined to help. The first bit of knowledge my father imparted to me was how to make biscuits. They were delicious; almost always my favorite part of the meal. Now, these were not particularly fancy biscuits. They were simple Bisquick biscuits. You took the powder that contained most of the necessary ingredients and added milk and eggs and viola, you have dough. The magic for me came not in the mixing of ingredients, but in the fact that I was finally able to make something. I could actually do some good in the kitchen. My dad and I would mix up the ingredients, and knead the dough around some until it was a thick, sticky glob. We would then flour up a cutting board and a rolling pin and work together to flatten out the dough to a manageable thickness. To cut the dough up into individual pieces we would use various utensils. Sometimes, we would use cookie cutters to get cute little shapes, while other times we would simply take a glass from the cabinet, flip it upside down and firmly press into the dough, creating a perfect circle. After all the shapes had been cut we would mold the left over dough into a heart shaped biscuit, specially made for my mom. After the creating had been completed, dad put the little lumps of dough in the oven. He removed them ten minutes later to reveal fully fledged biscuit creations, and we all sat down to enjoy the fruits of our labor. Making biscuits with my father is one of the fondest memories of him that I have. Whenever I think back to that time I am overcome with a sense of calm, of peace, and of reassurance that everything will work out okay. One day I want to have my own child with whom I can share the same feelings.

As time progressed and I grew older, I began to make the biscuits on my own. When I was about seven, I taught my younger brother, who was around four at the time, how to make my creations. I tried to teach him as lovingly as my father had taught me.

Those times in the kitchen with my brother created a strong bond between the two of us. I loved him so much that I wanted to impart all my knowledge and love onto him as our father had done for me. We would spend hours playing in the kitchen, making biscuits for mom and dad. We would compete to see who could make the most creative biscuit. Once all the baking was done, we would proceed to clean up the kitchen. However, our attempts at cleaning often did not go as planned. We would be washing dishes the old fashioned way, with dish soap and a sink, and would end up getting in playful water and flour fights that would cover the entire kitchen. Mom did not mind though, she was always watching, laughing at our antics. She seemed the happiest when we would play together and get along. When we had finally had enough, she would join us in our endeavors to clean up the gigantic mess we had made.

As we continued to grow up, and dad got busier with work, I eventually taught my mother how to make the biscuits she had watched us make for years. My mother and I were very close when I was young. She would take me up to the park and swing with me; she would take me to the library and read for hours on end with me. My time in the kitchen teaching her how to make biscuits was especially precious because for once it was me teaching her, not the other way around. I felt like I was able to connect with her on an entirely new level.

All these childhood memories have come together to give me a wonderful view of my family in the kitchen. Our kitchen was a place where I bonded individually with all the members of my family. When I look back on those simple times so long ago I remember how happy my family was together, I remember that things do not always have to be needlessly complicated. I remember that something as simple as mixing three ingredients together can produce a world of fun and creation, and an environment in which strong bonds of love can be forged. The bonds created through family cooking are things that every child should experience.