Yesterday found me in the kitchen. Covered in flour. Sleeves rolled past my elbows with arms hugged around a three year old standing on a step stool. We clasped one giant wooden rolling pin within our four sugary hands and in a duet of movement, flung it back and forth over a fragrant circle of dough.
There were problems. It turns out that to roll out a perfectly round pie crust you need to have arms that are longer than say, eighteen inches. So we would push the pin forward together as far as we could until my boy had stretched as far as he could go (which he indicated with liberal use of the word Ouch) and then he'd drop his little arms and patiently wait for me to roll the dough the rest of the way forward, then come halfway back to meet him. Eagerly he'd swing his little arms back up to the spinning pin and continue rolling with me.
There were accidents. Children's toys come with warning labels but apparently large bags of flour make no note of the fact that they are not really three year old friendly. My son tried to pour a little flour onto the surface of the wooden cutting board and ended dumping a blizzard of white upon his own body that managed to infiltrate the pockets of his pants and even his shoes.
There were dashed hopes. Such as the moment I had to gently break the news to my boy that not only would he not be using the sharp knife (or any knife) to cut apples with me this year; but worse, he could not anticipate *any* time in the near future when using knives in the kitchen would be okay. (My explanation gained some credibility however when I reminded him of the time he nearly cut his thumb off at grandpa's house 18 months ago and ended up with four stitches.)
And yet... such joy! Such sweet sweet joy!
Sometimes I forget how exciting it feels to be a child creating something tangible that has value not just in the world of children but - more powerfully and mysteriously - also in the world of adults.
My boy scrubbed his hands with soap until they shone, then dug them elbow deep into a large wooden bowl full of sliced apples and sugar and mixed with full-bodied fervor. He dropped pats of butter atop the filling with meticulous care, as if each had been a life preserver sent to save the cinnamon. He pinched together top crust with bottom crust, his small fingers pressing edges together gleefully as though he could barely believe his luck to be actually touching raw dough. He sang his alphabet as we poked the letter "A" into the center of the top crust with a thin toothpick.
Children toil daily on paintings that go not to the Louvre but sometimes make it to the refrigerator. They practice mastery of truly difficult skills such as how to hold and use a pencil or how to sit on a bicycle balancing one foot on each pedal without falling over. They learn to navigate the extremely complex world of which items *can* be placed in the mouth and eaten: ice cream, brussel sprouts, cooked eggs, carrots; and which items should definitely NOT go anywhere near their taste buds: batteries, coins, legos, paperclips, rocks. (Crayons and chalk seem to them a gray area.)
It is hard to be a kid and want desperately to fit into the magical world of adults where plastic cards taken from wallets can be swiped through odd looking boxes to buy toys and food and Christmas trees... a world where a metal key put into a thin hole in the front of the car can make an entire family move faster than a bicycle. A world where you can flip a switch or turn a knob and a metal chamber in your kitchen will suddenly get "so hot it will melt the hair off your hand" and adults are allowed to open that chamber on purpose to change raw food into cooked food but children can't come anywhere near it. There are so many things off-limits to children ~ cleaning products, light sockets, heavy tools, medicines, glass, swimming pools.
The things they yearn to touch, like stars, are so far away.
Last night at 8pm my five year old son began to fuss at the inequity of it all.
"It's not fair! Why do WE have to go to bed and YOU don't?"
"You are growing boys and you need your sleep so that you can get big and strong. I'm already grown up, so I don't need that much sleep any more."
"But don't you want to be healthy?"
"Of course."
"Then WHY don't you go to bed now too?"
"Well, I have a lot to do to get ready to take care of you again tomorrow."
"I don't WANT to go to sleep."
"I understand that. However, it IS bedtime."
"WHEN WILL I BE ABLE TO STAY UP LATE?"
"When you are 18, you can stay up as late as you want."
"WHEN WILL I BE 18? ONE HUNDRED YEARS?"
"Let's see buddy... that would be in about twelve and a half years."
(His face lights up. He knows that twelve is less than one hundred.)
"When I am 18 years old, how old will YOU be?"
"Old. In fact, by the time the three of you are all 18 years old, your daddy and I are going to be so old that we may need to go on vacation for a long, long time."
Once the little guys finally got to sleep and I went back to baking, I thought about this exchange for a long time. I vividly remember what it felt like to be small and insanely frustrated by rules and double standards imposed by adults upon children. Children must eat their vegetables but adults can eat what they like for every meal. Children have to rely upon their parents or guardians to set up playdates or even go to the park, while adults can get in a car and go to another city on a moment's notice if they feel like it. Children must be polite and respectful to teachers and coaches, even if those same instructors are unkind or condescending to them.
If children feel weak and disenfranchised, it is because by and large they are treated that way by adults who have the advantages of physical size, strength and literacy.
I always swore that when I grew up I would treat my own children with respect. I never understood just how hard it is to be the parent feeling your way along as you go, trying to figure out the boundaries between strength and indulgence; kindness and irresponsibility. Good parents have to walk a fine line.
That's why baking is so great. When my sons and I bake together, there are clearly defined roles for each of us but at all times we get to work together toward a common goal. I operate the heavy machinery but they get to add all of the ingredients. We mix the dough and grease the pans and stir the filling... and even though I will be the one boiling milk on the hot stove for custard, they'll be ready to dust it with cinnamon and sugar as soon as the hot liquid is safely ensconced in its crust.
In working together we find a new dynamic, a team dynamic. We wait together excitedly to glimpse our finished product, giggling as the kitchen fills with fragrant and fruity aromas. We take turns peeking at our creations through the glass window on the oven. We give each other reports.
Best of all, when the timer dings and dessert is revealed, my sons experience exultation in the knowledge that they have DONE something. They have BAKED. Baking isn't like play-doh or tricycles... it isn't an act reserved for preschoolers or kindergarteners. Baking isn't for babies. Baking is real, baking is for everyone.
We had dinner with the grandmothers and uncles last night and everyone was exclaiming over the great apple pie. None of them knew that it had been created by a three year old, but he knew. Soaking in their words his little cheeks grew ruddy and delighted, his eyes sparkled like firecrackers. With every sincere grown-up compliment that floated over his little head, he sat up a bit straighter and with more confidence. "HE baked the pie?" they exclaimed when they found out, "This darling little boy?" "But it's WONDERFUL!"
Like a rite of passage, baking afforded my son brief entree into a grown up world of crystal glasses clinking, dinner table gossip and most importantly, the sincere respect of adults. I think he liked this first pleasurable taste of power. As I tucked him in to his little bed, just before he nodded off to sleep he whispered dreamily, "Mama when I grow up, I am going to be a COOKER".
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