Wednesday, May 18, 2005
The Snow Mess
When I was in 1st grade, my class at Valley Oaks Elementary created a cookbook. Each student was asked to write the recipe of his or her favorite food. With ingredients, measurements and directions scrambled by 6-year old minds, the recipes for pancakes and spaghetti and macaroni and cheese may have borne a passing resemblance to the originals, but surely would have produced inedible resuts.
I was reminded of the cookbook a few weeks ago when I found Max in the kitchen, ostensibly whipping up a batch of waffles. He had filled a mixing bowl with most of a box of baking soda, a liberal serving of the salt, a mound of flour, a little baking powder, and an aromatic helping of vanilla and orange and lemon extract. Thankfully, I intercepted the project before he had begun to crack eggs or slosh buttermilk. Aside from Max's liberties with the citrus extract, I was surprised and impressed with his recall of the ingredients. Perhaps I shouldn't have been, since Max asks to make waffles or pancakes almost every day of the week. I don't always indulge him, but when I do, I'm partial to waffles. Not only is the recipe divine, but the extras are just as perfect when heated through, straight from the freezer. They've become so popular as the kids' snack that a couple of times a week I'll discover the freezer door open and one of the boys roaming the house with a zip-lock bag full of cold waffles.
Sometimes, though, what Max really wants is to make waffles, not eat them. On more than one occasion, he and I have measured dry ingredients and separated eggs and whisked in oil and buttermilk and folded in stiffened eggwhites. When at last I'm pulling the first steaming prize from the waffle iron, Max walks out of the room, calling over his shoulder, "I'm not hungry." (Can we add that to last week's list of things my kids do that make me think I'm going insane?)
A week ago, Max asked to make pancakes, and soon he and Reed were sitting cross-legged on the island, eager to participate. For a short spell, I tried to maintain order, moving the carton of eggs out of Boo's reach and confiscating the baking soda from Max and fussing at both of them to keep their hands out of the flour cannister. And then I had an epiphany. For a couple of weeks I've been struggling to maintain an ever-changing list of projects and outings to stimulate my kids, yet here I was squelching the very activity that held their full attention. Not to mention that with boys (at least mine), there is simply no fun greater than the joy of making a mess.
I shifted gears, and the real play began.
Reed picked up the box of Arm & Hammer and dumped its contents onto the island. Max dipped his hand in the flour and marked Boo's chest with a powdery print. They took turns sprinkling baking soda liberally in each other's hair. Then Max began to shower the floor with handfuls of flour: "It's snowing!" That gave him another idea. He jumped off the island, ran from the kitchen and returned with baby powder, white gusts shooting from the container with every squeeze. Reed joined him in stomping across the floor, leaving perfect footprints in their wake. Filled with delight, Max shouted, "It's a snow mess!" Then Max went to find his plastic animals to make pawprints in the "snow."
I often wonder what my kids will remember about their childhoods. Of the many memories I wish for, I hope they include many happy hours spent together in the kitchen: learning to level the contents of measuring cups and spoons, magically whipping eggwhites into a frothy foam, licking the spatula from a bowl of brownies, maybe even making a few messes of unforgettable proportions.
As I was changing his clothes that evening, I kissed the top of Boo's head. He still tasted of baking soda.
I was reminded of the cookbook a few weeks ago when I found Max in the kitchen, ostensibly whipping up a batch of waffles. He had filled a mixing bowl with most of a box of baking soda, a liberal serving of the salt, a mound of flour, a little baking powder, and an aromatic helping of vanilla and orange and lemon extract. Thankfully, I intercepted the project before he had begun to crack eggs or slosh buttermilk. Aside from Max's liberties with the citrus extract, I was surprised and impressed with his recall of the ingredients. Perhaps I shouldn't have been, since Max asks to make waffles or pancakes almost every day of the week. I don't always indulge him, but when I do, I'm partial to waffles. Not only is the recipe divine, but the extras are just as perfect when heated through, straight from the freezer. They've become so popular as the kids' snack that a couple of times a week I'll discover the freezer door open and one of the boys roaming the house with a zip-lock bag full of cold waffles.
Sometimes, though, what Max really wants is to make waffles, not eat them. On more than one occasion, he and I have measured dry ingredients and separated eggs and whisked in oil and buttermilk and folded in stiffened eggwhites. When at last I'm pulling the first steaming prize from the waffle iron, Max walks out of the room, calling over his shoulder, "I'm not hungry." (Can we add that to last week's list of things my kids do that make me think I'm going insane?)
A week ago, Max asked to make pancakes, and soon he and Reed were sitting cross-legged on the island, eager to participate. For a short spell, I tried to maintain order, moving the carton of eggs out of Boo's reach and confiscating the baking soda from Max and fussing at both of them to keep their hands out of the flour cannister. And then I had an epiphany. For a couple of weeks I've been struggling to maintain an ever-changing list of projects and outings to stimulate my kids, yet here I was squelching the very activity that held their full attention. Not to mention that with boys (at least mine), there is simply no fun greater than the joy of making a mess.
I shifted gears, and the real play began.
Reed picked up the box of Arm & Hammer and dumped its contents onto the island. Max dipped his hand in the flour and marked Boo's chest with a powdery print. They took turns sprinkling baking soda liberally in each other's hair. Then Max began to shower the floor with handfuls of flour: "It's snowing!" That gave him another idea. He jumped off the island, ran from the kitchen and returned with baby powder, white gusts shooting from the container with every squeeze. Reed joined him in stomping across the floor, leaving perfect footprints in their wake. Filled with delight, Max shouted, "It's a snow mess!" Then Max went to find his plastic animals to make pawprints in the "snow."
I often wonder what my kids will remember about their childhoods. Of the many memories I wish for, I hope they include many happy hours spent together in the kitchen: learning to level the contents of measuring cups and spoons, magically whipping eggwhites into a frothy foam, licking the spatula from a bowl of brownies, maybe even making a few messes of unforgettable proportions.
As I was changing his clothes that evening, I kissed the top of Boo's head. He still tasted of baking soda.
1 Comments:
I remember our mother making a bit of a snow mess, dumping some baking ingredient (flour, was it?) on Brian.
Have you shown Max yet how to make a volcano with baking soda and vinegar? Hmmm... maybe that's not such a good idea just yet (but the anniversary of Mt. St. Helen's blowing brought it to mind).
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