Cooking Up A Cure

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.

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Mommy's Little Helper

Wow, I was looking back at my recent posts, and I’ve been in quite the crabby mood lately. Sorry for whining so much! Usually I’m more positive. I’ll have to assume it’s the never-ending winter, but that’s a bad excuse.

Anyway, today is a happier (and shorter!) day.

My kids generally eat fairly healthy foods. They’re little kids though, so there are definitely exceptions to this. But some of the things they eat and enjoy surprise me – salmon, edamame, miso-glazed chicken, mango pudding, beef stroganoff. I’ll toss it all at them and let them decide.

It’s sort of fun to watch them insist there’s no way they’re eating something. I inevitably remind them of our rule that they have to taste something – and no, tasting doesn’t mean putting your tongue in the general vicinity of said item and the insisting you don’t like it. You actually have to take a bite, chew and swallow. The swallowing part is key. Needless to say, I always ensure they have a glass of something to drink in case they don’t like it. And well better than 50% of the time, they decide they like it.

They also enjoy cooking and baking with me – at least until their attention wanders elsewhere. Whenever I’m at the island, Little Miss insists on dragging a stool over and climbing up to observe or – better yet – help me.

This morning, I had to make some more granola. Yeah I know, I make my own granola. It’s what I eat for breakfast most mornings with a bit of yogurt atop it. Yum!

Once we got Mister Man on the bus, we headed inside, and she climbed onto her designated stool. She helped me dump in the four cups of oats. Then she proceeded to pick them up a few at a time and eat them. “Mmmm, oatmeal!” Well, actually they’re oats, Sweetie. “No, OATMEAL! It’s oatmeal, Mommy.” I tried to explain the difference, but to no avail. But let’s back up a moment – she’s picking up dry oats and eating them. And likes them. What kind of a kid does that? Oh yeah, one who decides she likes baking soda.

Then we add the wheat germ. She doesn’t think she likes that one. Coconut is next. By now, I’m catching on, and I decide to add a little extra. Smart Mommy. She ate probably a quarter of the coconut I put in there. Apparently, she also likes coconut. In go the pine nuts. Yup, she apparently likes them, too. As I add the cinnamon, she starts dipping the pine nuts into the cinnamon. Granted, I’m combining the flavors in my granola, but dipping pine nuts into cinnamon wouldn’t be my first choice of a snack. Nutmeg? Same thing.

Of course we have to smell all the yummy ingredients. She now prefers to hold the jars and baggies herself. “No help, Mommy. I can do it myself!” So far, so good – knock on wood. We’ve yet to have a cinnamon-scented floor because the spilled something everywhere.

Well, sort of. As I was getting the olive oil and honey together, she decided she wanted to stir the dry ingredients by herself, just like Mommy did. Yeah, we had a little spray of stuff go all over the island. And the assorted items that somehow seem magnetically and irresistibly drawn there – the books, children’s museum membership card, children’s artwork, etc. Whoops. Fortunately, her stirring was fairly shallow, so only a bit of the ingredients went flying.

Smart girl knows that there are some things she can’t do. The last step is adding chopped dried cherries after the granola has baked. She pulled her stool back up to help me. Then she saw the knife. “This is adult work, Mommy. I’m just going to watch.” She paused for a moment, and then, “But, Mommy, I want some cherries, too.”