It is a passion he must have inherited from Zac since my main role in the kitchen is cleaning up the messes that the boys make.
We discovered Wyatt’s culinary skills several months ago. One night while Zac was cooking a big dinner, Wyatt asked for his own pot and utensils and stood near the stove mimicking every move that his daddy made.
It wasn’t long before he had learned the difference between a “wheesk” and a “spat-atula” and was making good use of the cooking set he got for Christmas.
Most of his dishes are imaginary, of course, but he has started requesting scrambled eggs a lot lately because he knows he’ll get to help with them.
I will admit to having partially selfish motives for encouraging Wyatt’s new hobby.
I can cook enough to get by, but it is quite convenient for me that Zac enjoys planning and preparing most of our meals. When we’re both old and gray, I can’t count on the fact that either of us will know the difference between a whisk and a spatula.
Wyatt could be our only hope for being able to eat well in our last days.
My little scheme was put in jeopardy last Sunday morning when Wyatt had an unfortunate experience with a hot pan.
He and Zac were browning some bologna for breakfast while I washed a pile of dishes. No cooking oil was being used, so Wyatt was allowed to stand in his favorite chair next to the stove.
Unfortunately, his hand brushed up against the pan when he leaned in once to observe.
Because his reflexes kicked in at the appropriate time, it turned out to be a minor injury. The most significant effects were more mental than physical.
“Me not gonna cook anymore,” Wyatt said through sniffles right after it happened.
So far, he has been a man of his word. He is likely just taking a short break to go do other little boy things, though.
I expect that the next time Zac and I are in the kitchen working on a meal together, Wyatt will be in the middle of the action.
Cooking could just be a phase for Wyatt. However, in case it isn’t, I want him to know there is a fine line between being cautious and giving up something you love because you got hurt.
I am speaking not so much about wounds to the flesh as wounds to the soul.
Some new Pink lyrics have been giving me food for thought lately: “Where there is desire, there is gonna be a flame. Where there is a flame, someone’s bound to get burned. But just because it burns doesn’t mean you’re gonna die. You’ve gotta get up and try, try, try.”
I struggle constantly with the temptation to disengage. Getting burned is inevitable in this life, and it isn’t hard to figure out that the only way to avoid it is to stay away from the stove.
The problem with that is watching from a distance gets boring after a while.
By nature, I avoid taking risks. By choice, I chance it when I feel that I am more likely to regret what I didn’t do than what I did.
Of course, I want to spare Wyatt pain whenever possible, but I also want to show him by example that just because it burns doesn’t mean you’re going to die.
Sometimes, the fact that you got close enough to get burned is an accomplishment in itself.