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 children’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. As the children grow and mature, they will repeatedly be able to look back on those fond memories 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 morning he would make a magnificent array of food for the family. The selection would vary depending on what he felt like making at the time. Sometimes there would be omelets full of delicious combinations of meat and vegetables and cheese; other times fried eggs would constitute the main dish. There could be fluffy pancakes, crisp waffles, or thick, rich biscuits. There would also be some form of meat to offset the other flavors. Always a beautiful side of fresh fruit was present, courtesy of my mother. This tradition of Sunday morning breakfasts as a family has been around as long as I can remember. The times that most distinctly stand out in my memory are those from when I was finally old enough to be of some help. At last I could 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 are not particularly fancy, instead they are simple Bisquick biscuits. All that is needed in their creation is the Bisquick powder that contains most of the necessary ingredients, milk, and eggs. Combine the ingredients all together and viola! You have dough. The magic for me came not in the intermingling of ingredients, but in the fact that I was finally able to create something capable of bringing a smile to a loved one’s face.
My dad and I would mix up the ingredients, and knead the dough until it was a thick, sticky glob. We would then lavishly flour a cutting board and a rolling pin, and work together to flatten out the unruly 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 adorable little shapes, while other times we would simply take a drinking 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 remaining dough into a heart shaped biscuit, fashioned solely for my mom. Dad would then place 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 just fine. One day I want to have my own child with whom I can share these 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. We would spend hours playing in the kitchen, making biscuits for Mom and Dad. We would occasionally 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 begin washing dishes the old fashioned way, with a bottle of dish soap, a sink, and a washcloth, and we would end up getting in playful water and flour fights that would cover the entire kitchen. Mom didn't mind though, she was always watching, laughing at our childhood antics. She seemed the happiest when we would play together and get along. When we 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’s work became more and more time consuming, I 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 a young child. 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 should be experienced by children all over the world.
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