Many of my friends treasure their collection of old recipe cards, written in a loved one’s familiar script. Not only do they outline how to prepare the family’s favorite dishes, they often conjure memories of learning how to cook them.
I am not one of those people.
Mealtimes of my childhood involved the inartful combination of ingredients from a can: congealed meatlike substances, something that might have once been a vegetable, and a hearty glop of some cream-based soup. Dinner preparation was less about any actual ingredients from nature and more about how many pre-packaged items you could combine and still pass off as a meal. What those products, marketed as “time saving” to women of the 1970s, lacked in nutritional value, they more than made up for in preservatives, sodium, and, quite possibly, MSG.
Discovering that fruits and vegetables could actually be purchased in their fresh state was my moment of epiphany. Even more thrilling was the discovery that they tasted nothing like their mushy, strangely colored counterparts that came in a can. Real food, it turned out, tasted good.
I’ve never looked back.
In my quest to learn how to feed myself in a healthy fashion, I studied cookbooks as if I’d be taking an exam. I made mistakes but kept trying. My tiny apartment kitchen suddenly filled with whisks, sheet pans, and a Dutch oven— and I knew how to use them.
Eventually, an amazing thing happened: I learned how to cook.
Once my boys were born, I vowed they would not have to figure out cooking on their own. As preschoolers, they kneaded dough with such enthusiasm that flour ended up on the floor, the walls, and each other. We picked raspberries in our backyard, still warm from the Montana summer sun. Herbs grew in pots right outside the kitchen door. Trips to the farmers market at Bogert Park became an equal balance of playground time and the search for colorful, in-season vegetables from local vendors.
Later, the boys learned to safely use a chef ’s knife to mince, dice, and chiffonade without a thought of engaging in an impromptu sword fight. When they left for college, they had the skills—and probably some of my cookbooks and pans— to navigate their very own kitchen. I knew that late-night pizza deliveries would always be on the college student menu, but I also knew they had the knowledge to make their own from scratch if they wanted to.
Even though they now live far from the kitchen where they learned to cook, not a week goes by without a text telling me about their latest culinary creation accompanied by a photo that’s worthy of a food blog. And when I’m lucky enough to dine at their table, I’m absolutely certain that the menu will include their creative flair, fresh ingredients, and one of my old skillets.
