Kids In The Kitchen: A Mother's Day Ode

After reading some beautiful, funny, heart-warming blogs of Cooking-Moms, I must foray albeit blindly into this world, if only to say “thank-you” to my own mother.
Overhearing many mommy-wars, I can already feel the tingling judgment of women about to pounce with the true remarks that I am not a mother--what could a girl, barely in her mid-20s possibly know about the stresses/joys of having a child (or children) in the kitchen? Quite right they would be--I still live with my parents, stalling the dreadfully frightening but inevitable independence of fully self-sustained living. What could I possibly know about keeping one child entertained, while changing the diapers of the other, while attempting to compose some semblance of a “proper” dinner. Fine for me to make up a quiche recipe, resulting in an scrumptious, quiet meal at 10 (...or sometime thereafter) at night. No children to put to bed, no games to suggest only to be met with “but I’ve done that already!” The only dire needs in my life are petty compared to those of a child in need of mommy.
Rather, I have merely been that child (and in many ways still am). Not long ago I called out for my mom, a shriek to the heavens that amounted in the smallest but biggest of reasons, to simply have her there. I was ill so the lapse of judgment is forgiven. Every mother (and father, but sorry pops, this is mum’s day) has experienced this puzzling, adorable, frustrating phenomenon of a child in desperate need for... for... Hence the frustration for it is an incommunicable need. It is not merely attention, validation, or support we seek from our mothers but something far more basic. It can seem unearthly impossible to the multitasking mom--”WHAT?!” But that’s the wrong question. It is your smile, your loving glance, your undivided playful and strong attention, your perfect touch, but most of all to continue being a part of you and your life that we seek upon that cry.
I am beyond grateful for my mother’s acceptance of me in her kitchen--even more grateful that she never let tell that it was hers while she was using it. Early memories of peanut-butter fingered, crusty nosed and mouthed and ever-determined me would help roll the pizza dough, aware of the hot oven but carefully peeking into it. It was ours. My mother did not sigh and give me a shoe lace. Or maybe she did and it worked so well that my memories do not read it as an attempt to get me out of her sacred space...
The kitchen is communal. No matter how hard we try to keep it a perfect sanctuary, by definition, that is not what it is. Your kitchen is chaos, it is delicious exploration and experimentation, it is a heap of messy dishes--a carnage that lays proof to your abundant feast that left you bursting and satiated. Your kitchen is proof of your ingenuity, your ability to provide, even if none of the right ingredients lay present in your diminished cupboard. Are these not boosted by collaborative efforts?
Your child of three will not help you tidy (unless she’s like the magical three year old I provided care to whilst attending university) but if you continue to include children, eventually they will. The first rule of the kitchen that my frenetic and gorgeously untidy mother taught me was not to get out the measuring spoons but to fill the sink with hot, soapy water. As we baked, each dirtied spoon and dish was tossed there. Everything and everyone has their place but that does not mean mommy in the kitchen and occupied kid elsewhere. Engage your child, take a little more time, and eventually they’ll figure it out.
Our kitchen is currently shared, sometimes tensely, between four people and two animals at a minimum, each eating separate meals, though attempting to do so at roughly the same time. For the first time, six months ago, my father uttered the words, “It’s my kitchen, too!” which was met with an utterly scathing look from my mother (to be fair, he had half of the space). In that moment I realized that she was proud not only of my food choices but of my cooking abilities, of my growth and of my manner. She understood that our joint efforts with pizzas, muffins, cookies, cakes, etc. were enabling me to feel confident, competent, and creative in a kitchen space. To own, not the space, but one’s taste creations, and thus to take care of the communal space. A kitchen, as the facilitator of all flavours should be taken care of; if your children are not a part of that space, if they know it only as the magical place where mommy (or, as it was for me growing up, daddy) brings out the food, then they will be ill-prepared to look after that space as they grow. View your kitchen as one more place to nurture your children, and they will look after it. Take it from the one who cleans it!
So thank-you, mom, not only for providing the best pastries and muffins ever but for sharing the sacred space and those secret recipes. I hope my use of our kitchen continues to do you justice.