I remember how strange it was when he began kindergarten.
How would he get through the day without me (or how would I get through the day without him?) This is the same feeling, just more intense. He’s making plans to move to Utah to snowboard, rock climb and backpack in the mountains that he loves. It’ll be a time of self discovery and adventure and I know he’s ready for this big step. I’ve watched him grow into someone who’s smart, thoughtful, and capable. But as I stand in the kitchen making dinner, one thought keeps circling:
Did I teach him enough about cooking?
Cooking has always been a quiet but steady part of how I show up for my kids. It’s not about elaborate meals or picture-perfect dinners—just the basics that help you take care of yourself and the people around you. The kind of cooking that gets you through the week and brings everyone to the table including friends and neighbors. I want him to leave home with a book of our family recipes that I hope he’ll find useful and comforting as he builds his own life.
We’ve had a lot of time in the kitchen together, even if it didn’t always look like “lessons.” When he was little, it was mostly about fun—helping stir, rolling dough, making a mess. As he got older, it became more practical. I tried to work on the essentials: knife safety, how to make pizza and bread dough, the magic power of a crockpot, and how to make a simple pasta sauce without it coming from a jar. I wanted him to feel capable, not overwhelmed.
Now that he’s getting ready to move out, I’m putting together a small cookbook for him to take. Just a binder of simple recipes—things we’ve made together, meals he already likes, a few tips written in the margins. Not because I think he needs to be a perfect cook, but because I want him to feel like the kitchen is also a place of self discovery and creativity.
I know there will be frozen pizzas and takeout tacos. That’s part of the deal. But I hope he also remembers how satisfying it is to cook for yourself, even if it’s just a simple fruit crumble or a pot of chili shared with roommates.
If he keeps a few solid recipes, a good knife, and the habit of cleaning as he goes, I’ll count that as a win. I’ll know I’ve done my best, though, when he makes me dinner in his new apartment and it tastes like the home we’ve shared for so long.
