When my mother first agreed to go on a date with my father, she had no idea that would entail a third wheel of mushrooms. Rather than taking her to a fancy restaurant, my dad had prepared a stew in his kitchen. My mom was skeptical at first, but despite her reluctance, she loved it.
Throughout my childhood, cooking has been a skill almost as essential as reading and arithmetic. In first grade, my dad made sure I knew how to correctly cut onions. In sixth grade, he invited me backstage for Thanksgiving prep. My mom has always included me in her various holiday cookie prep, be it in oven mitts or with a cookie cutter in hand. I have a place in the kitchen, I’ve always known I have.
The first thing I ever learned to make was “ham roll-ups” for my preschool lunchbox. They were rather self-explanatory: first I’d layer two slices of lunch meat and spread a dollop of cream cheese or mustard across. Finally, I’d wrap it up into a tight sack of protein. I’d repeat the process three times and then pair it with apple juice and sliced strawberries.
Although it probably wasn’t any sort of dazzling cuisine, my four-year-old self was enamored.
Throughout elementary school, my goal was to always have lunches I would label “gourmet”. My parents were never the type to send me in with Lunchables or deliver me Panera, so my lunches were my own inventions. By middle school, I had an alternating selection of dishes: pretzel sandwiches, burrito bowls, quesadillas and salads.
In that period of time, my handmade dishes and I were the outliers to a rule I hadn’t been caught up on: girls didn’t eat now. Whether it was cool or a rebellion, I was never sure, but no matter my efforts they were there.
There were many days I would sit at my table, my glass-guarded lunches in front of me and feel like a fish out of water. Most of my friends and their varied diets would usually share a single bag of Skinny Pop, and that was that. My parents wouldn’t let me make the switch from meals to snacks, no matter how much I begged. They argued for my sustenance and nutrition, aspects my 12-year-old self found ridiculous.
But when I hear the horror stories now, I’m thankful. Thankful that I didn’t become a statistic, thankful for every fruit and vegetable I ate and that the thought of “thin” didn’t consume me. Most of all, I’m thankful for the meals and the continued pleasure they bring me.
