Mr7 and I did some cooking tonight. Usually ‘cooking’ involves both boys eating their bodyweight in chocolate chips whilst waiting to stir the cookie mixture. Or swiping at the cake mix with a wooden spoon before racing off to lick the batter off it.
Tonight, he decided he wanted to help me make dinner. Chilli con Carne (sans Chilli for him and Mr4).
So I showed him how to cut an onion – which he then wanted to attempt with a butter knife, before I dissuaded him.
Then he helped me put the spices in with the meat – by standing halfway across the kitchen and flinging cumin in the general direction of the pot.
“You can go closer,” I said, watching bemused as the cumin snow hit the ground. But no, he didn’t want to burn himself.
When he attempted to open a can of tomatoes with a bottle opener, not being able to recognise a can opener out of the drawer, I realised it’s definitely time to overcome my anxiety about him chopping off a finger or setting fire to his hair and actually teach him to cook.
I have always sworn that I would never raise boys who could not fend for themselves.
Time to start putting my money where my mouth is.