She may be just 3 and a half but she likes to cook. So I give her frozen vegetables with a bit of water in them. I didn't think about it much. It is pouring rain and I need to find something for her to do before we all lose our minds.
She drags a chair to the countertop and rolls up her sleeves.
Clearly, this is going to take some concentration.
She's completely wrapped up with seeing what each and every utensil in my drawer can do to her veg. She uses the potato masher slowly then with great spirit. Stirs them with wooden spoons. Lines them up on the soup strainer. Sucks the water out with the turkey baster (which also doubles as a microphone in our house).
After a while, we stick it in the microwave. She warms it up. Takes it out. Checks it. Warms it again. Over and over. Over again.
Finally, it's hot.
(After all, it takes a while to cook frozen vegetables when you heat it in increments of 23 seconds.)
She coats it in butter. Julia Child would be proud. I can hear my mother hooting, "Butt-ah! Always more butt-ah!"
There are peas and bits of carrots on the floor. There's water on the counter. The utensils are scattered hither and yon. There are beans stuck in the strainer. There's a wrinkle right between her eyebrows, the same one I make when I'm concentrating hard. This project will mean that the dishwasher will be running an extra load today.
At last, she makes an announcement: "It's ready!"
Her brother and I sit at the table. We each get a little teaspoon full of veggies. She, on the other hand, sits down to eat the entire bowl herself.
"I think this is the best supper I've ever had," she says happily.
