Flour Power

It seems that most moms are born with some type of inherent knowledge to pass along to their children…how to play the piano or throw the perfect pitch. Maybe even how to drive a car. I don’t really qualify for any of the above, but I have been thinking really hard about what in the world I am already 100% sure that I know how to teach my apple-sized baby.

I haven’t come up with a huge list, but I do know this: my baby is going to know its way around a kitchen.

Words like tofu and lentils won’t send it running for cover. The art of a buttermilk biscuit will be passed right on down the line, from my grandmother to my offspring. The historical importance of beautiful lasagna with a homemade béchamel will not pass by this baby. And shrimp ‘n grits, chickpea salad, and my somewhat infamous “ringtone ritty” will be taught at an early age.

You see, if there’s one thing I already know about teaching a child lessons, it’s that the most important ones in life are passed along while standing right in your own kitchen.

I wasn’t really raised to cook at my own house. My mom is very, very protective of her stovetop, so I was typically seated at the kitchen table while she prepared our meals.

But my father’s mom had a viewpoint on the complete opposite end of the spectrum. Her cooking defined her; it defined her family. When Grandmother’s husband died and left her a single mom, her buttermilk biscuits and lemon pies seemed to instill a special kind of southern magic in the family. It kept the farm a-running, the chickens a-laying, and the world from spinning out of control.

Of course, as a child, I had no idea why it was so important to her that I learn to cook. I knew nothing of the earlier struggles of my little white-haired grandmother. I had no way of knowing that it was her way of passing along an actual living, breathing piece of herself to me. And now, almost twenty years after her death, I only hope she knows how much I’ve taken her wisdom to heart.

Of all my grandmother’s amazing recipes, her buttermilk biscuits were, by far, the most famous. Some folks in her little community claim that she helped to raise almost every baby born within a 10 mile radius. When the going got tough or the money got short, she would feed children those biscuits. My sister and I could not get enough of them, and we would often have contests to see who could eat the most of them.

When I was lucky enough to get some one-on-one kitchen time with Grandmother, we were typically making those biscuits. There was no recipe, no biscuit cutter or perfect shaping tool. The science of baking was a lost cause in that kitchen, where all you needed was love and magic to produce the best biscuits in the south. Even now, in the culinary classes I teach, I tell my students that perfect biscuits require “a whole lotta love,” which believe it or not, works like a charm.

Standing over the old yellow bowl at my grandmother’s kitchen table, I learned some of the most important lessons of my life. I learned, of course, that love is required to produce the best results. No recipes exist for the sweetest things in life. If you’re good at something, teach someone else how to do it. Don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty. Always taste your dough. And in the end, when you’ve given it your all, be proud of your accomplishments.

So while I have an amazing assortment of moms, sisters, and (my other) grandmother to help me through a lot of the problems I’m bound to encounter, I’m counting my lucky stars for the flour-covered woman who taught me how to use a rolling pin.

I’m pretty sure she knew I’d thank her someday.