I struck my fork five times against the rim of a pot, trying to dislodge grains of rice. The sound rang through my granddaughter’s sleep, and she rose and popped into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. I asked her why she was awake so early, and she said, “I thought my daddy was in the kitchen.” Imani is seven years old, and she cooks with her father.
My eldest daughter does not post all of her life on “Crackbook,” but one of the pictures she shared was of Imani in a little hoodie, cooking bacon at the stove. My daughter told me that she wears the hoodie to protect herself from hot popping grease. She learned the lesson during a painful bacon-frying session with her dad; her mother came up with the idea for the countermeasure. Her father likes to cook, though, and because she wants to be in charge of everything in her world, she wants to cook with him. When I was with the family — Lisa, Bing, Xavion and Imani — I was the beneficiary of Sunday morning BLTs handcrafted by Bing, and watched Imani’s inquisitive mind and takeover personality up close.
One of the traditions that I had with Imani was the making of pancakes, a food she does not eat. But she loves to cook, and ultimately, her joy is derived from the process. She is not old enough or tall enough to operate a hot stove on her own, so close supervision is important. But she has acquired a lot of cooking knowledge by cooking with dad and from endless viewings of cooking shows on YouTube. A few years ago, I sang a song by the band “Marvin Pontiac” called “Pancakes.” The hook in the song is, “she didn’t make me pancakes,” and Imani decided that she wanted to make pancakes. At four, she was not the reader she is now, so I had to tell her what the ingredients were and the quantities. She measured the mix, oil, water and egg, and beat them gently, until the mix was mostly lump-free, according to the instructions. I oiled the pan and heated it, and positioned my laptop to capture a video of the two of us cooking pancakes. Until this year, she has asked to cook pancakes with me on my every visit. But I guess “Cool Papa,” the grandfather, has to yield to the father on the stove.
Imani has a favorite brand of macaroni and cheese that she prepares in the microwave. If her brother, Xavion, is having macaroni and cheese, she must still prepare her own. She peels the top off the package, puts the right amount of water in the container and places the mix into the microwave. She presses “3” on the keyboard, adds “plus 30” seconds — “My daddy taught me to do that” — and watches as the carousel turns. When the bell dings, she opens the door, rips open the cheese seasoning packet and blends her meal in the way her father taught her.
When John Mayer sings, “fathers, be good to your daughters,” I think of my failures and try to measure my successes with my own two daughters. I see some evidence of valuable teachings in some of the behaviors and relationships with others that I immodestly attribute to their parents, of which I was one. When I see my granddaughter’s reaction to her father’s arrival home, and watch her don her cooking apparel for Sunday morning bacon-frying, I believe that more things are happening in the hearts of the two of them, and there is no greater mystery and magic than when she is cooking with dad.