I like to think that my children have solid life skills, that I've given them appropriate freedoms and responsibilities to function in a home.
In theory, my two teenagers can prepare meals, wash dishes, take care of laundry and clean the house. The work isn't always done with precision, and there's some work I'd rather just do myself, but they don't balk — at least not obviously — at chores I give them.
Some of their domestic skills, and my need for control, have been put to the test recently.
Their youth group was hosting a potluck at church this week, the same week my schedule was packed with deadlines. I asked Cooper and Katie to choose the dishes, create a shopping list, purchase the ingredients and prepare the recipes.
The first step was simple. They agreed on cowboy cookies (a family favorite) and orzo pesto salad (based on no past experience).
Cooper shopped, navigating the store with occasional questions, which he would sometimes ask grocery employees and sometimes text me.
"Where is celery? I'm struggling."
(Produce, near the lettuce.)
"What about orzo?"
(Pasta aisle.)
"And chocolate chips?"
(Baking aisle.)
After he returned home, he realized that he'd forgotten unsalted butter. And that he had mistaken pecans for walnuts in the bulk aisle. He returned to the store.
At last, all the ingredients were assembled, and Cooper and Katie divided to conquer tasks. She was in charge of making pesto and boiling orzo. He was in charge of chopping all the veggies. They would share the cookie duty.
As I worked on a project nearby, trying not to hover, I realized all kinds of tips that I hadn't yet shared. It's easier to chop bell peppers from the flesh side, not the waxy skin side. You can line up two stalks of celery, side by side, for quicker slicing. Basil should be rinsed well and totally dried before being tossed in the blender.
I attempted to stay out of the kitchen and to offer advice only when asked.
With the salad complete, they moved on to dessert. I left the house to run a couple of errands, expecting to come home to the scent of cowboy cookies.
Instead, I came home to frustration. The dough was too thick, Cooper complained. I quizzed him on butter. Did they put in one cup? Or one stick?
The kitchen was silent, followed by frantic rereading of directions and butter sticks. Alas, the batter was missing half its butter.
Their faces fell. "Is all this wasted?" one wailed.
"These are the kind of mistakes we can recover from," I counseled. "You can still add more butter." (It's much harder to remove it, as I learned in the Great Snickerdoodle Debacle of 1994.)
I intervened before they just threw another stick in. I suggested that they scoop the dough into a new bowl, use the mixer to beat another half cup of butter, then return the dough and mix again.
At last, the dough was ready, and together we scooped teaspoons of the stuff onto cookie sheets — cookie sheets that were warm, by the way, because Katie forgot to remove the pans from the oven before preheating.
The whole experience took twice as long as it would have, had I done the work myself. There would have been less uncertainty, less irritation, less mess.
There also would have been no risks and no rewards.
Cooper and Katie gained a few new skills as they prepped for their potluck. I suspect they'll be more likely to remember that lists should be double-checked before leaving the store, that one stick of butter equals half a cup, that the oven should be cleared before preheating. Most importantly, I hope they remember that most mistakes aren't life-or-death matters — they're invitations to grow.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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| Katie and Cooper, hard at work in the kitchen (with special Sandy appearance) |
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