'"We Don't Let Dorothy Crack The Eggs Anymore" Chapter 15 'Kiddies Kook Book'

The next thing I write will be entitled "The Kiddies Kook Book" because anyone who tries to cook with the aid of her kids is a kook.

Look at it this way: All the prose you read suggests that the Best Mothers introduce their daughters (and sometimes a son) to what goes on in the kitchen at an early age.

"It gives them a feeling of creativity, of belonging, of imitating what grownups do..." So it goes.

Yuh. Yah. It gives me a headache.

Oh, I guess it's all right if you have just one or two moppets. But multiply that number and you've got problems.

First battle: Who gets to do the "steering" -- (meaning stirring)?

Who puts in the ingredients? This chapter will
do very little because of the constant draft.
Especially when the oven door bangs shut.....aiyyyyyy! One more hurdle has yet to be encountered before the hassle ends. "I wanna
lick da spoon!" shouted by four different voices, some muffled by sobs, causes the crisis.

Do I use four different spoons to mix batter?
Mothers can always dole a bowl to one for licking, a spatula to another, a spoon to the littlest but what about the fourth kid? And no matter besides, I'm sure you've noticed how,
no matter what utensil each gets, as he licks, he's eyeing avariciously what the other kid has and he KNOWS Mommy gave her MORE!

Measure by calipher and you still get the fisheye. (What IS it with untrusting youngsters?)

The little imitators want in on the action of the main dish too. And grubby paws are not quite in the lend-a-hand category.

Although they've memorized he story of the Little Red Hen who went through the bit with her barnyard pals not helping her grow the wheat, grind the meal and bake the bread, these kids don't buy that version.

They WANT to help. They just don't want to eat.

And frankly, my hunger diminishes somewhat after the ground-up-ham for casserole has been child-handled in between lickings (their fingers, and come to think of it, a few swats of Mother's palm, too) and dropped on the floor.

Don't bother to warn them not to tell Daddy about the "accidents". Wasted breath. He's the next one to lose his appetite after their blow-by-blow report at the door.

On the other hand, this kitchen comradeship has a salutary effect. When Poppa's fed up with not being well-fed on account of the moppets' drop-its, maybe he'll invite us out for dinner...

I can hear him now, in dulcet benevolent tones offering, softly murmuring,"Do you want a birch beer or coffee with your burger?"