Team Cooking

Doing a little team cooking dance.

Doing a little team cooking dance.

Ian and I met studying guanacos at the Detroit Zoo, but we became friends over food. I lived in a dorm, he lived in a house, and he treated me to home cooked meals when we met to work on the latest research project for our Animal Behavior class. It wasn’t long before we were cooking those meals together, and cooking together has been an important part of our relationship for over 23 years now. We intuit each other’s cooking style after so many years, and as with good ballroom dancers, we understand, for each dish, who “leads”. Like seasoned dancers performing a well-rehearsed number, we work in harmony, joyfully, anticipating what comes next, so that even tricky moves look effortless to bystanders.

So I suppose it isn’t surprising that, about a month ago, the kids decided they wanted to make dinner once a week. They know what a fun and fulfilling task it can be, and they want to be part of it.

Unfortunately pre-teen siblings who are often nervous around things like hot ovens and stovetops don’t work together quite so smoothly. Indeed, after the first week, when they ended up cross and irritated with one another making the simplest one-pot meal, we suggested they cook two dishes—that way each one of them can be “in charge” of one dish, and while the other will help them cook it, they’re in charge of decisions about the dish and how it is made.

And I suppose this is exactly what Ian and I have come to in the kitchen, though not by design. We each have our specialties. Ian bakes bread, and though I help, and am perfectly capable of making fine bread myself, he is in charge of bread. I bake desserts, and when Ian takes on a dessert himself, he defers to my judgement if he gets into difficulty. I make cheese, he makes beer. I make omelettes, he makes frittata. Yet we rarely do any of these things alone—the other is usually there, cleaning or cutting vegetables, washing dishes, testing spicing.

It works for the kids, as it does for us. Though they often need a helping hand from Mum or Dad, and though they may argue about what they’re going to cook, once they’ve divided the meal, they manage to work together reasonably well…for 10 and 12 year old siblings. They are already developing their “own” skills, becoming the “expert” in chopping carrots, or cracking eggs. And they’re learning how to accept each other’s expertise. What a huge lesson! To learn that someone (even your little sister) might know more than you do! And to learn to accept, seek, and value someone else’s skills and expertise.

So, while the kids’ Friday night dinners often end with a shocking mess in the kitchen, and sometimes the smell of something burnt hard to the bottom of a pan, they’re great training for all sorts of situations in life.

365 Days of Food

Food.

It feeds us physically and emotionally. It is an integral part of our celebrations, and is the scaffold on which our days are built. As a gardener, food is even more; it is a hobby, a lifestyle, a way of seeing the world and my place in it.

Over the next year, I will blog daily about food. Not a daily recount of what we ate, nor a recipe a day for a year (though there will be some of both), but an exploration of the role food plays in our lives–a look at life, the universe and everything reflected in the bottom of a stock pot.

So pull up a chair and fill your plate. There’s always room for one more at our table.

Worst Hostess of the Year

Just on their feet, the triplets Ariana, Albus and Ableforth.

Just on their feet, the triplets Ariana, Albus and Ableforth.

Our visitors were scheduled to arrive for lunch at 12:30—a colleague of Ian’s visiting from overseas and some members of her family. Lunch was in various stages of preparation at 12:15 when I got the call from my vigilant children that my goat Artemis was in labor. Leaving the production of meal entirely to Ian (with quick instructions as to what to do with the muffins when the oven timer went off), I dashed outside, pulling my boots on as I went.

It wasn’t long before our guests pulled in the driveway. I greeted them in my blood stained coveralls (from Ish’s kidding last week), leaving the paddock only long enough to explain my predicament and hand them over to Ian.

Back in the paddock, Artemis was looking decidedly uncomfortable. She leaned into my leg as I scratched her back. How Ian was getting on with lunch and guests, I didn’t know. After a while, her contractions seemed to slow, and I was starving, so I took a break for some food. Everyone was relaxing on the porch, food and drinks in hand. I raced to fill a plate and a glass, and sat down, apart from the group, where I had a view of the paddock.

Less than a minute later, I was up again, shrugging on my coveralls, lunch left mostly uneaten on my seat. The first kid was coming, but Artemis was lying down, and the big boy she was trying to deliver needed either gravity or me to do some pulling. Artemis refused to stand, so I pulled her first kid out and proceeded to wipe the mucous off him while she ponderously got to her feet to check him out. I called out his gender to my children, nervously waiting in the yard.

Number two (a girl) was already visible, but she was breach—coming out back feet first. She, too, needed some help. While Artemis licked one, I towelled the other. I called out the gender of the second kid to the children, and they cheered and raced to tell Ian (we’d been hoping for a girl from Artemis this year).

Artemis still looked awfully round, and I was pretty sure I could feel at least one more set of legs in her belly. Labor had stopped, though, so I ventured back to the house, covered in fresh blood and all manner of birthing fluids, to see if I could finish my lunch during the lull.

I had just enough time to finish my dried out bread and cheese and my wilted salad before kid number three made his appearance. He was out by the time I got to the paddock.

It took another hour or so before all three kids were on their feet and nursing well. I waved to our guests as they drove out.

When I finally stripped off my coveralls and washed up for the last time, I asked Ian, “So…who were those people?”