There are families who cook dinner while their children or grandchildren quietly color at the kitchen table, I assume. I’ve never actually met one, but the internet assures me these families do exist. At my house, cooking dinner with a toddler is less Valerie’s Place and more Kitchen Nightmares: Preschool Edition.
It always begins the same way.
“Do you want to help Grandma make dinner?”
Why do I ask this?
Seriously.
I could cook dinner alone. I could turn on a cartoon for him. I could hand him some Goldfish and enjoy 23 consecutive minutes during which no one touches raw hamburger where he’s happily playing with his parents or sister, but I cannot!
But apparently I enjoy creating memories. And I am Grandma Cooksalot! He immediately climbs up onto his gifted toddler climby cage thingy and gets into “position”.
And immediately we’re under investigation by the sanitary police..
Step One: Wash Your Hands
Simple enough. Except washing your hands with a toddler is not a hygiene practice. It’s a recreational water activity. Turn on faucet. Add soap. More soap. MORE SOAP, but this time, he is signing, angrily, the word “more” to add emphasis!
Why are there bubbles on the counter?
Why is your shirt wet?
And why did we somehow use $$$$ worth of hand soap preparing to touch one food item? Eventually, his hands are clean. His parental figure’s hands are soaked – along with their face, shirt and hair!
The kitchen is beginning to resemble the aftermath of a pint-sized tsunami.
Perfect.
Let’s cook.
“I HELP.”
There are two words every adult loves hearing while holding a sharp object:
I HELP.
Cut the vegetables?
“I HELP.”
Crack the egg?
“I HELP.”
Fry the cutlet?
“I HELP”
Man the oven while Grandma starts cleaning the mess?
Presumably, he does that too.
Toddlers possess the confidence of a celebrity chef despite having recently eaten a Cheerio they found underneath the couch that showed signs of pet debris and couch dust.
And I respect that.
I don’t understand it.
But I respect it.
Measuring Is Apparently Just a Suggestion
The recipe says one cup. Grandma says, “one cup.” Mommy re-enforces the one cup statement. My perfect lil potato boy believes recipes are designed to thwart his creativity. So we’re using somewhere between one cup and the entire container.
“That’s enough, buddy.” the pouring continues.
“Okay. Stop.” And we are still pouring.
“STOP.” He looks directly into my soul and then he does it. . .
Tips the container – the remaining ingredient cascades into the bowl.
Outstanding!
We’re are no longer making dinner – we are concocting a science experiment.
I’ll notify Emergency Services.
Cracking Eggs: A Contact Sport
Want to discover how fast your reflexes really are? Give a toddler an egg. He watches so intently how Grandma cracks the egg. We do hand over hand and his egg, too, cracks perfectly. I hand him another egg. “Go ahead, Buddy! You try.” I watch with bursting Grandma’s pride that this little genius boy child will take his three second egg lesson and run with it.
He taps it gently once. Nothing. Again. Niente. Then apparently remembers he’s Buzz Lightyear with karate chopping action!
SMASH.
Egg on the counter. Egg on the floor. Eggshell in the bowl. Possibly eggshell in his hair – in my hair – on the ceiling fan. Who even knows at this point!
The dogs have suddenly appeared despite being unconscious in another room thirty seconds ago. I begin fishing shell fragments out of the bowl while my tiny sous chef proudly announces:
“I HELP!”
You sure did, Gordon Ramsay.
You sure did.
The Taste Tester Has Arrived
Here’s the interesting thing about cooking with toddlers.
The child who refused to eat a vegetable yesterday suddenly wants to taste everything while you’re cooking. And so does his sister. She has since graduated to double digit cooker kid but that’s a story for another day!
Cheese? Taste.
Bread? Gobbled up.
Another piece of cheese? No problem – the Titan Tummy of his is on it.
The ingredient you need exactly six of? He’s already eaten four.
But once everything is cooked, assembled beautifully and placed on his plate?
He’s even more of a champ! His sister? Not to much! Apparently cooking changes food at the molecular level into something offensive to her.
“You wanna try it, Buddy?”
The little smiling face with glistening eyes whispers his usual, “Yes.” We wait. It doesn’t take long. We hear it – the gag sounds that can be heard around the world just popped out of this boy. And she is looking at the plate with a face that says, ‘ain’t no way, lady.’
Cheese and Rice, as my Dad used to say, cheese and rice!.
Cleanup: The Final Betrayal
Every children’s cooking activity should come with a disclaimer to be read aloud to any adult engaging in this kinda nonsense:
Preparation time: 20 minutes.
Cooking time: 15 minutes.
Cleanup time: until the child leaves for college.
There’s flour on the floor. A spoon under the refrigerator. Something sticky on the cabinet.
One sock is missing. Didn’t even realize he was wearing socks at this point! Nobody remembers removing a sock. How did we get on a sock when we are cooking???
There is shredded cheese in locations that violate several laws of physics and I am left contemplating using a power washer inside.
My Tony has abandoned the kitchen completely and is happily playing in the living room, big sister in tow.
Apparently his shift ended. She’s on break too.
Meanwhile, I’m standing at the sink wondering how making dinner required 14 utensils, three mixing bowls and every towel we own.
But Then…
Dinner finally reaches the table. He climbs into his chair. Looks at the food. Looks at me.
And proudly announces:
“I HELP!”
And technically?
He did.
Sure, I handled the raw meat. And the stove. And the oven. And the knives. And prevented approximately seven emergency-room visits. But he poured something. He smashed an egg. He ate half the cheese. He’s basically executive chef. And she is the supervising executive chef of miniature operations.
And despite the mess, the chaos, the excessive hand soap and the fact that I’ll be finding shredded cheese behind appliances until Christmas… I’d do it again.
Because someday he won’t need the little stool. Someday he won’t insist on stirring everything. Someday he won’t be standing next to me yelling, “I HELP!” while holding a whisk upside down.
And apparently I’m sentimental enough to know I’ll miss this.
Which is incredibly inconvenient because I was really committed to being annoyed.
So we’ll cook together again. I’ll make the food. He’ll make the memories. And the mess. Mostly the mess.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need coffee. A bougie one, to boot. 10 oz medium roast with a double shot espresso – it’s a fall now so I add some homemade pumpkin spice creamer and a dollop of fresh whip and sprinkle with a bit of cinnamon for some extra calming scent.
Because tomorrow he wants to bake.
God help us all.
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