Cooking Shows Are Destroying My Family

It all started late last summer when we discovered that our son was sneaking onto Netflix and watching countless episodes of Cake Boss. I should have been concerned when he wrote us a letter informing us that he knew "everything there is to know about cakes" which meant that he was qualified to design our wedding cake. But his interest seemed harmless - even adorable - and we had no idea that Cake Boss was only the beginning, the gateway show to Chopped and Cutthroat Kitchen and The Next Great Baker and even the YouTube channel Nerdy Nummies and somewhere along the line, Zeca joined in this culinary crusade. This summer, they have said things like, "You don't understand! We want to really bake!", "We are not interested in everyday cooking!", "We want to create something special!" While I encouraged the basics, they requested fondant and angled spatulas and special piping tips for icing. When I suggested they make pesto for dinner, they said they would consider Fettucini Alfredo with pan-seared shrimp because anything simple was beneath them. So, under attack from these culinary crusaders, I acquiesced and told them they could bake whatever they wanted provided they worked together and then washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen afterwards. They joyfully agreed.

And so the troubles began...

Why make a sandwich when you can create a double decker lettuce, tomato, parmesan sandwich held together by a neon plastic sword?

What is not pictured? The trail of parmesan cheese from the kitchen to the dining room. Hansel and Gretel were amateurs with their bread crumbs!

Why decorate a cake with candy sprinkles when you can make your own glass candy?

Not pictured: The glass candy slivers that melted all over the front stoop after they smashed the candy with a hammer.

Why should they have to learn to frost a cake? That's why the Gods of Baking made fondant - it hides imperfections!

This was the first cake of two that I had to repair with my very basic frosting skills that I did not learn on a television cooking show.

The second cake they made together ended in a huge argument in which the two kids screamed at each other over the following:

• One of them didn't even think to preheat the oven (Miguel)
• They did not level the cakes (Miguel)
• The piped icing was too runny (Zeca)
• The piping was uneven (Zeca)

I came downstairs to mediate but Zeca had already locked herself in the bathroom and Miguel was alleging that she had punched him and run. Their fighting triggers something deep and dark inside of me so I started yelling and, once Zeca came out of the bathroom, I gave them a lecture that ended with the best maternal comfort I had to offer, "Someday, we'll be dead and all you will have is each other. You better learn to get along."

Then, just last week, I heard Miguel call from the kitchen, "Um…mom…I think I need a little help…" I went down to find that he had opened the Joy of Cooking and was several steps into making a Souffléd Omelette. The kid can't fry an egg but was in the process of trying to make something with the word soufflé in it! We didn't have the proper baking dish and I suggested that we quickly melt some butter in a casserole dish on the stove which was a horrible idea because the dish exploded, leaving my entire kitchen covered in shards of glass. I spent the next half hour picking up buttery glass bits and breathing deeply to avoid yelling and sounding like an asthmatic rhinoceros in the process. A week later and we are still finding pieces of glass in rooms adjacent to the kitchen.

The thing about catastrophes is they do give perspective. I told him that he could not attempt a souffléd anything until he was able to prepare eggs at least three ways - fried, over easy, and scrambled. I said, "You have to crawl before you can walk," and he misread every single social cue in the situation that should have told him to keep his mouth shut and said, "Actually, I have quite a few friends who walked before they crawled." The rhinoceros returned and I gritted my teeth, "You have to crawl before you can walk. You have to frost before you can pipe. You have to fry a damn egg before you soufflé."

If we are not successful in banning cooking shows in our home, we might just have our own reality show soon enough.

From Garden to Table

My mother loved fresh tomatoes. She often grew her own and reveled in the feel of her hands in black dirt, the joy of picking and eating something she’d grown herself. When she lived in places without enough space to garden, she’d stop at the small roadside stands of local farmers – those made of weathered wood and rusty nails – and slide cash into a coffee can before taking home a basket full. She’d slice those deep red tomatoes, salt them and eat with reverence. Years later, after Luisa and I bought our house, I remember her sitting in our freshly turned garden and saying, “Oh girls, this black dirt…” as if we’d struck gold in our tiny plot in the city. We planted tomatoes and peppers and a variety of herbs but our excitement waned as the summer wore on and we realized that gardening is work. You have to weed and water and your hands get dirty and you sweat and I have never been fond of any of those things. But, as our plants began to bear, we forgot about all of that as we made large batches of tomato sauce and pesto for the winter and in the dark months of those Minnesota winters, we took pesto from our freezer to mix with pasta and I could taste summer and understand my mother’s appreciation for things eaten right from the garden.

We endured several growing seasons – reluctantly weeding and tending to our plants – but we stopped gardening altogether once we had our first child. Life was different, our priorities changed and the little bit of time we had that wasn’t consumed by the care and feeding of a person was precious. Time was too short to spend it doing something we didn’t enjoy. So, we turned our backyard garden over to a friend to use in exchange for a small portion of what she’d grown. To be honest, I’m happy to buy my produce at the coop, the modern day equivalent of those weathered farmer’s stands from my past. But last summer, I watched as my children lazily plucked cherry tomatoes from the vine and laughed as they burst in their mouths, juice running down their chins. I watched as they stared in wonder at peppers hanging from plants and lettuce poking through the soil. They understood what I’d forgotten at the first sign of my own inconvenience – that there really is something incredible about eating something you’ve grown.

So, this summer, we decided to garden again. Luisa researched raised beds and designed one that I am certain could withstand a post-apocalyptic zombie raid. Then, just a few days ago, I went to the garden store with my son and picked out our plants. He excitedly begged for one tomato variety after another and wanted every herb he saw. We kept it simple though – tomatoes, basil, a little mint for the occasional cocktail – but I did give in to his plea for a hanging strawberry plant that I’m sure will not survive.

Yesterday, I grabbed the shovel and dug holes and scooped dirt with my bare hands. I pulled plants from plastic containers and nestled them into their new homes and pushed black dirt over their roots. As I was shoveling peat around each plant, the kids finally dragged themselves outside to help. I filled the bed with peat and we pushed our hands in and crumbled the larger chunks until it was smooth and even. My son set up the sprinkler, turned it on and we watched as water sprayed in rainbows over our new garden.

Sweat was running down my back and there was dirt under my nails and mud was smeared on my arms and legs and there was streak of it across my forehead and I hated it. There was no magical transformation, no revelation. Change is rarely that simple. We put in a garden and it was work and I will never enjoy the work. But, I know that when we sit down to dinner this summer and eat pesto made from the basil we grew and make caprese from our own tomatoes, I will appreciate the tastes and the effort and I will enjoy watching my kids eat with the same reverence my mother did all those years ago. We will use our garden to deepen our connections to each other and to the food we bring to our table which will hopefully strengthen and enrich our shared family meals.

The word for our family dinners this summer is savor. We’ll strive to savor the food, the work and the company.

What do you do differently for your family meals during the summer? Do you garden? Share your answers and your one word for family mealtimes this summer using #sharethetable on Facebook or Twitter to join the conversation. Remember that Barilla donates 10 meals to Feeding America every time you do. Sharing is good.

This is a sponsored post on behalf of Barilla, however, my opinions are entirely my own and I have not been paid to publish positive sentiments towards Barilla or their products.