Singing in the Kitchen
My husband and I received a new bread machine as a wedding present. In the two months we’ve owned it, we’ve only been able to make two edible loaves.
My husband made the last loaf, and it was a complete disaster. I think he must’ve gotten the yeast wet (a big mistake with bread machines – it kills the yeast, and the dough will not rise.)
I sent an e-mail to my parents, telling them of our bread woes. My mom replied with an order for cookbooks, some bread recipes, a website on bread machines, and some instructions on the use and storage of yeast.
My dad replied that it was probably because my husband didn’t sing to the bread, so it didn’t know it was time to rise.
“There are two times to sing,” he said. “In the shower, and when you’re cooking.”
I remember being a little girl, sitting in a kitchen chair on my knees so I could watch while my dad made spaghetti. He’d take a fistful of raw noodles and crack them in half with a yell like a kung-foo fighter. As he went through each step of the process, he’d tell me about the best way to strain away the grease, or why you should run cold water as you dump out the boiling water so the steam doesn’t scald you.
But most of all, I remember him singing. They were always silly little ditties he’d make up on the spot, unrhymed for the most part, with a simple catchy tune. Sometimes they would be about a particular step: “Now we dump in the noodles, stir and stir the noodles . . .” But often they would be about anything that came to his head while cooking.
After my grandmother passed away, my Papaw came to live with my family for about two years. In the mornings, I could hear him singing softly to himself as he made coffee and poured his cereal. I realized that was probably where my dad had picked up the habit.
It wasn’t until I moved away to college that I realized I had picked up the family tradition. A roommate jokingly pointed out that she could always tell when it was me in the kitchen, because I would sing these silly songs.
As family habits go, I could’ve done a lot worse. Somehow, its very comforting to stand in the kitchen of an evening, singing as I make supper for my family, knowing that I am carrying a spark of hidden creativity passed from generation to generation.
My husband and I received a new bread machine as a wedding present. In the two months we’ve owned it, we’ve only been able to make two edible loaves.
My husband made the last loaf, and it was a complete disaster. I think he must’ve gotten the yeast wet (a big mistake with bread machines – it kills the yeast, and the dough will not rise.)
I sent an e-mail to my parents, telling them of our bread woes. My mom replied with an order for cookbooks, some bread recipes, a website on bread machines, and some instructions on the use and storage of yeast.
My dad replied that it was probably because my husband didn’t sing to the bread, so it didn’t know it was time to rise.
“There are two times to sing,” he said. “In the shower, and when you’re cooking.”
I remember being a little girl, sitting in a kitchen chair on my knees so I could watch while my dad made spaghetti. He’d take a fistful of raw noodles and crack them in half with a yell like a kung-foo fighter. As he went through each step of the process, he’d tell me about the best way to strain away the grease, or why you should run cold water as you dump out the boiling water so the steam doesn’t scald you.
But most of all, I remember him singing. They were always silly little ditties he’d make up on the spot, unrhymed for the most part, with a simple catchy tune. Sometimes they would be about a particular step: “Now we dump in the noodles, stir and stir the noodles . . .” But often they would be about anything that came to his head while cooking.
After my grandmother passed away, my Papaw came to live with my family for about two years. In the mornings, I could hear him singing softly to himself as he made coffee and poured his cereal. I realized that was probably where my dad had picked up the habit.
It wasn’t until I moved away to college that I realized I had picked up the family tradition. A roommate jokingly pointed out that she could always tell when it was me in the kitchen, because I would sing these silly songs.
As family habits go, I could’ve done a lot worse. Somehow, its very comforting to stand in the kitchen of an evening, singing as I make supper for my family, knowing that I am carrying a spark of hidden creativity passed from generation to generation.
posted by Amanda at
1:33 PM
