This weekend Thatbaby and I were sitting at the breakfast table when his foot got stuck in the rung of the chair. As I unhooked it, I told him about how Thatmom had broken her leg in a similar fashion, while helping her grandmother bake cookies.
It made me think about the connections we make in the kitchen. In many places it is not just a place of cooking, but one of community. I can't count how many dinner parties I've been to where at some point we all end up in the kitchen, leaning on counters, and drinking wine while chatting.
We all have family memories tied to the kitchen. Whether it's the smell of your grandmother's tomato sauce, watching her stir the pot, tenderly and gently, or the memories of helping your father at the barbeque. In my family, I remember helping my father braid the weekly challahs. Or making ice cream with him by rolling coffee cans across the dining room floor. I remember stirring muffin batter with my mom, and helping her scoop cookie dough onto cookie sheets.
I cherish those memories from the kitchen, and I'm hopeful that Thatbaby is beginning to make those same memories. With his constant desire to "wach" everything I do in the kitchen and wanting to peak in the oven, we're off to a good start. And I hope he continues to help in my cooking adventures. I hope that he grows to view the kitchen as a place of warmth, a place of nourishment, and a place of family. That he learns that it is a place that feeds the body and soul.