Imperfect

It wasn't until years later that I realized cooking was my way of seeking control.

I would stand in the kitchen, steam curling around my bare arms and face, while Seth and Madeleine squabbled and dumped toys on the floor behind me. I ignored the fighting, the mess, them, in an effort to present the perfect meal just as Mark came through the door.

I thought, somehow, that they would be at once awed by my cooking prowess, grateful for a wife and mother who poured her soul into dinner preparations, and overcome by the delectable smells and tastes issuing from the plates in front of them. They would settle cozily around the table and speak in voices both sweet and low. We would all smile charmingly at each other, then take turns washing up before heading peacefully to bed. Whatever grievances the day may have brought, would magically be dissolved from six o'clock onward.

It never quite turned out like that.

Yes, Mark would occasionally smile as he came home to the whiff of a favorite dish. But more often than not he was tired and sullen, the children contentious, and myself (I admit), irritable.

And so I would pour over cookbooks. The recipes grew longer and more complicated. I stood for hours over the stovetop, that the onions would be caramelized but not crisped, the vegetables more uniformly chopped, the meat browned to the height of tenderness. If I could elevate our meals to the next level, somehow the children would stop fighting. Mark would become kinder and appreciative. If I could just get dinner right, our family would work right. I would feel loved.

I didn't realize this was my subconscious train of thought, not at the time. At the time the only thought on my mind was how important it was to get the onions sauteed nicely (oh, how important), and as I stepped from the refrigerator back to the counter, I slipped and fell on an errant roller skate that was for some reason lying directly in my path.

The children came running into the room, impressed by my crash. Seth's eyes were wide in childish sympathy. "Are you hurted, Mama?"

I couldn't help but smile briefly. "No, I'm not hurt, Seth. I'm just frustrated that your toys are scattered all over the floor while I'm trying to cook." My annoyance rose as I spoke, my voice rising with it.

Maddie seemed oblivious to my mood. "What are we having for dinner, Mama?" she asked innocently.

"Curried red lentil soup, rosemary-olive bread, and--"

"Mama's famous lentil soup!" Seth screeched. Maddie squealed and clapped her hands.

Seth's face was suddenly two inches from mine. "What makes it taste so good, Mama?" he asked with a level of seriousness that only a six-year-old can muster.

"Well..." I still felt dizzy from my fall. Cautiously I got to my feet. "I guess...maybe I could show you...do you want to try to help me make it?"

"Yay!" Maddie threw the roller skate across the floor again. It went skittering to a corner where it stopped, wheels spinning.

She followed me to the counter, where she hopped up on the step-stool that I kept there to aid in reaching the spice cupboard. Seth began dragging a kitchen chair across the floor, with what seemed an unnecessary amount of noise, until it reached the counter. He clambered onto it and stood waiting expectantly.

I stood uneasily before the stove. "Well..." I hedged. I had never tried to teach the children to cook before. But Seth's little hands were already reaching for the bag of lentils, so there was no time for carefully-formulated instructions. "Not yet, Seth! The lentils go in last!"

The children were aghast. "Last?"

Maddie found the garlic. "Let's do this first!"

Seth was fumbling with several jars of spices. "Can I put these in?"

My head was spinning. "Wait! Wait, we don't do any of those yet!"

"But can I be the one to put in--"

Suddenly I had it. Stooping conspiratorially towards them, I whispered, "I will tell you the secret to the very best soup-making."

It was the whispering that captivated them more than anything. Eyes wide, they both leaned in toward me. I savored the silence for a brief moment before telling them, "The secret is to cook the spices in the oil before doing anything else. Then when you add the other ingredients, the spiced oil will give the very best flavor to the entire dish."

My secret had been gleaned from years of perusing recipes and cooking shows. But from their wide-eyed nods and intimate looks, my children seemed to think me a culinary wise-woman brimming with ancient knowledge.

I could live with that.

"Look, Madeleine, you pour some oil into the pot," I told her.

My prized olive oil glugged from the bottle. I grimaced only slightly as a little splashed onto her shirt sleeve. She looked up at me, alarmed.

"It's okay, Maddie, it's okay. That happens to all gourmet chefs," I assured her, in what I hoped was a chipper voice.

Seth was playing with the top to the pepper jar.

"Seth, do you want a turn? You can sprinkle in a little of that."

He shook the jar over the pot. The lid, which he had been unconsciously unscrewing, toppled into the pot, along with a mound of pepper.

This time it was harder to swallow my frustration. "Okay, buddy, it's okay...let's just take this to the sink here..." I fished out the top and tried to scoop out most of the pepper.

Seth grabbed two more spice jars. "Can I put these in?"

"Not fair, Seth! You did the last one!" Maddie yelped.

I sighed and closed my eyes. If only they could have kept playing in their room. I could have prepared dinner in relative peace. At this rate, it was a real question whether it would be done before Mark got home from work.

"Look, Maddie, you can do the turmeric. And Seth, how about you do the pretty red one? Just don't touch the top, okay?"

Spices swirled into the glistening oil. Seth and Maddie jostled one another at the counter, squabbled, put in too much of this and not enough of that. I was about to tell them that they had helped enough and could go play until dinner, when I glanced up and saw both their faces glowing with pride. Then, with a softness I didn't know I had in me, I handed Maddie the wooden spoon, and watched silently while she stirred. Seth stood in hushed admiration of his older sister. When was the last time I had stood and just watched my children?

Sorting the lentils, a task that would ordinarily take me less than a minute, took five. I showed Seth how to sift through a cupful. Then Maddie sifted the same cupful, so it would be fair. I sifted through a final time to ensure that any stray stones were actually removed. Mark would be coming through the door in ten minutes and the lentils hadn't even been added to the pot. I was about to send the children away again when I caught sight of Maddie's enraptured face as she poured the tiny red gems into the pot. "They're so pretty!"

They really were pretty. I used to love the feeling of lentils sifting through my fingers, and the sight of them, like pale precious stones. How long had it been since I'd noticed?

Maddie gave the lentils one last loving stir. I helped Seth pour the water in. "We never boil lentils. We just bring them to a light simmer. Tiny little bubbles, see?"

Their faces lit up again, as though I'd imparted some great secret. I'd never before realized that they were capable of sharing my love of cooking—or of anything, for that matter.

"Mama, what's that bad smell?"

Maddie's question snapped me out of my reverie. "The bread!"

And that was what Mark came home to: me standing guiltily with a tray of burnt artisan bread, smoke wafting through the house, the temporarily unattended lentil soup boiling over, and two red-cheeked and kitchen-stained children beaming from ear to ear.

"I and Maddie made dinner! Mama helped!" Seth hollered at him.

The suprise and confusion eased from Mark's face. "Did you now?" he inquired.

The table wasn't even set. Mark waited with uncharacteristic patience while I rushed around with bowls and spoons. Maddie and Seth sat in his lap, chattering about their cooking experience.

We were finally ready to eat, a half an hour later than usual. I presented my husband with slightly scorched lentil soup, a hastily tossed-together salad, and a few of the rolls that seemed semi-salvageable. As I slumped into my chair, I decided that the perfect dinner was not going to happen tonight. I might as well relax and try again tomorrow.

It was true. Dinner was not perfect. Two glasses of milk spilled. Mark winced when he tried to bite into the rock-hard bread. The children chattered and shrieked and giggled, stood up in their chairs, got crumbs in their laps. They seemed cheerfully oblivious to the mistakes in the meal.

To my amazement, so did Mark. He smiled more than usual, asked the children questions about their cooking exploits, and by the end of dinner, was cradling Maddie in his lap while Seth messily helped himself to his third bowl of scorched soup.

"This was a great dinner, guys," my husband told us as he set his napkin down. "In fact, this was my favorite dinner ever."

And suddenly it was mine, too.