I always felt like I grew up in the kitchen, like so many self proclaimed foodies. My Grandma taught me how to cook. My mom taught me how to cook. I taught myself how to cook. I love it, desperately and controllingly sometimes.
Most chefs will tell you that in their earliest memories they are in the kitchen cooking. They were trusted with sharp knives and hot pots at an early age. While I think 2 years old is still a little early to be handing Gracie sharp instruments to help me dice with, she is becoming firmly ensconced next to me in the kitchen.
It’s like she knows what is going on. She uses all her strength to drag a kitchen chair to the counter and stand next to me. This weekend alone she assisted the seasoning of Irish stew (pouring the garlic powder and pepper), pumpkin pie (measuring and dumping the dry ingredients) and stuffed shells (handing me a new shell after taking a small nibble out of each one).
Sure, the recipes turned out a little off, but not enough to really matter. And if she can get 1.5 cups of sugar measured and into a bowl (more or less) at 2, what will she be able to create at 3? Plus, the sense of ownership and pride in helping is immeasurable, specifically because she ate like a champ this weekend.