My First Cooking Lesson

When I returned home from my first day of kindergarten, Mom took me into the kitchen and taught me how to boil water and make jello. My first cooking lesson. I probably learned more about cooking that day than I did in kindergarten (naps on rugs, listening to a story, playing with blocks, and coloring; which other than learning the name of my teacher, I already knew how to do plus I could print my name).

Mother was/is a decent cook but not a fine cook. She learned to cook from my father and, apparently from some of the stories I have heard, many of which involved tears, it was not a pleasant experience. So Mom decided that I would not relive her experience. She also taught me to iron, vacuum, mop a floor, and do the dishes at a very early age so as not to endure any other of her horrible trials as a newly wed. I always thought that her instructions were just a sham for me to do more of the housework until I actually married and my husband taught me the "right" way (i.e. his way) to make a bed. Ha! I taught him the "right" way (i.e. my way) to do everything else except how to make rice. His mother taught us both that.


Most college students arrive home for a weekend with their favorite meal ready for them to tuck into. Not so for me. My family would be waiting for me, drooling at the door asking when dinner would be ready. No hugs, no "it's good to see you"; just "when will dinner be ready, we're hungry". And I would cook, enjoying every minute of it.