It was the eventual boredom of playing with Barbie dolls, other kids being busy, or watching television shows that lead me to the kitchen. It occurs to me now; my father was the only family member in an open room, without closed doors. Sundays were the days, in which my father spent all day in the kitchen. As I grew older, I would read the newspaper, and we would talk about current events and opinions. These talks intertwined with my basic cooking lessons, and cooking would become an intuitive skill. With little hands, I peeled carrots, potatoes, a garlic clove or an onion. I watched boiling pots and pans as my father made a quick dash into the vegetable garden. Cheese or vegetables would be grated. I learned how to correctly prep and mince vegetables. Sauces would be stirred or whisked. Ingredients would be pre-measured for cakes as I anxiously waited for Dad to pour the batter into the pan. I loved licking beaters and bowls. My sister and I had a babysitter who did not understand why we were the only kids who didn’t like licking the batter from her instant cake mix. Out of modesty, we simply told her no thank you without an explanation of comparison. Although, we were happy for a slice.
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