thedadblog

So one of my kids loves to cook.

It's uncanny, his ability to just wing it, and make yummy food.

The other morning, before he went off to camp, he asked if he could make muffins.

My answer?

“Yes, but don't ask for any help.”

Lo and behold! A bowl full of batter and chocolate chips was sitting on the kitchen table as I clicked open the van door, and began the 10 minute process of getting kids into shoes.

“There's no time to bake them,” I said in what was probably too gruff a tone. To which he replied, “That's okay, they're for family day. You can bake them for my siblings while I'm gone.”

He's 8, and without a recipe, he made muffins that were actual muffins. Yes they would have done well with a little more (any) butter in the batter, but they rose! and they had chocolate chips! and they didn't taste like baking soda!

A resounding win all around.

This morning, I started making pancakes. (Thank you Kodiak Cakes for making pancakes with protein, that are yummy, and have slightly less sugar crashiness).

The first three were doing their thing on the griddle when he asked “can I flip them when they're ready?”

“Yes please!” was the obvious answer. I had to make coffee. Pick out outfits. Let out the dog. Pack a snack. Check water bottles for strange smells. Gather shoes and track down masks.

“Oh no! I'm horrible at pancakes!” came the sad sound from in front of the cooktop.

I turned and saw a half-cooked pancake half on the griddle, half on the glass cooking surface.

Somehow, in a moment of grace, I thought not about the mess, but the future.

“That's awesome!” as I sidled up to his gloomy (nearly teenage) response of “why?”

And so I explained to him that it meant he was learning how to flip pancakes. And that next time he would flip it a little better. And maybe the time after that, he would nail it.

And that meant that in the very near future, he'd be making me pancakes. Just like he'd made the muffins.

And maybe. Just maybe. SOMEday... that might translate in to 10 extra minutes of sleep for me one Sunday morning.