Another Family Chef

Back when I was only juggling one child, we used to do a lot of cooking as a family.  Sam would stand on a chair pulled up to the counter and help with cookies and pizzas and teetsa bread and pumpkin ravioli, all a little bit crooked but made with love and care, each new cooking adventure a decision to allow the kitchen to be covered in flour or sprinkles or grated cheese. From a very young age, Sam was allowed to help with chopping and rolling and cutting and stirring.  He got to experiment and create and taste ingredients while he covered himself and the kitchen in butter and flour. And I had both the time and energy to clean the floor and wash the dishes.  With child number two everything has been different and we haven't been cooking as frequently as a family.  There is the fighting and whining about what is fair and who got more cheese and why her pizza crust is bigger than mine.  There are tug-of-wars over the rolling pin or the salt shaker or the cookie cutters.  And there is the way my back screams at me when I bend over to dust up the flour or pick up the 30-pound toddler covered in egg whites.  But today while Sam was away at a birthday party and Eva and I had a little rare alone time, we made whole wheat dough and roasted peppers and simmered homemade tomato sauce and laid everything out for a mini-pizza dinner party.  Eva rolled out four little crusts all by herself, and when Sam came home he topped his with cheese and pepperoni and more cheese and more pepperoni.  And nobody whined (well not much) and nobody got hurt and I didn't have to bend over to sweep up the kitchen floor.