As I type this, Mister Man is upstairs in his room, I hope sleeping. He came home from school today crying, insisting that he had strep throat. Since he’s only claimed this once before – the second time in his life that he had strep – I sighed and felt his forehead. With the evidence of a fever in front of me, I called the doctor and we soon verified that he did, indeed, have strep.
Tomorrow is not going to be the day I’d planned, but that’s ok. Mister Man will be home sick with me, sad that he’s missing out on school and miserable with his sore throat.
Just as my mom did with me when I was sick, Mister Man and I will cook and bake together. He’ll have his choice of recipes to make – but I’m pretty sure I already know what he’ll choose. Expect to smell pancakes and cookies coming from my house by mid day.
With my mom, our go to recipe was chocolate chip cookies. I learned to break eggs younger than I have memories. My first memory of breaking eggs was of my sister and I arguing over who got to break the egg first. Fortunately for my mom, chocolate chip cookies – at least our recipe – requires two eggs, minimizing the arguing.
It’s still easy for me to bring to mind the recipe without so much as peeking at the back of the bag of chocolate chips. I know that my butter goes in first, followed by three quarters of a cup each of brown and granulated sugar, and one teaspoon of vanilla. I can see the texture of each step and taste it on my tongue just thinking of making the dough I so often created with my mom.
As I grew older and my mom wasn’t in the house watching over me as often, I made the cookies on my own when I needed a break or needed to relieve some stress or to feel better. It was my tie to my family and to knowing that someone was there for me.
I still use this today. My grandmother’s recipe for thumbprint cookies? There are days when I miss her so acutely, when I think of all she’s missing not knowing the wee ones or being around to eavesdrop at restaurants and it just gnaws at me. Those cookies bring her back to me, and I smile through my pain, remembering the times we stood side by side making them together.
Bunsteads are my dad’s family’s New Years. Marguerite Salad is Thanksgiving and Christmas. Biscuits are made for special dinners. Food is the tradition in my family that binds us together. I’m trying my best to pass that along to the wee ones, giving them the same sense of comfort and love that I got my from family and the time we spent together.
Already, the wee ones can peel a mango by themselves – albeit less efficiently and less quickly than I can. They know the order of ingredients that go into several dishes. They’re learning how to make bread and pasta sauce, and they can’t wait until they cook their first meal by themselves.
And yes, both wee ones can break an egg by themselves. Mister Man’s already working on his one-handed technique, although that may be awhile in coming.
This post was inspired by the book Mr. Rosenblum Dreams in English, this month’s selection for the From Left To Write book club where we write a post inspired by the book rather than a traditional book review. I received a copy of the book for the purpose of writing this post. There is no compensation involved, and all opinions expressed are my own.