Every morning begins with the same phrase: “Okay, today I’m the chef and you’re the helper, deal?”
He is four. Cannot read recipes. Still calls it “spuh-sketti” and believes ketchup to be a gourmet sauce. But what about the confidence? First class. Gordon Ramsay standards. Apron on, sleeves rolled up, attitude set.
I gave him a play kitchen, expecting him to prod at it for a week. Now it is essentially his restaurant. Me? Fake cupcakes cooling on the shelf and plastic vegetables in the sink. I get pushed around as if on his salary.
Leave that alone; it’s hot!
It requires additional salt. Always more salt.
My own top pick—“You can sit now, but only for a little bit.”
He’s also rather serious about it. He has me wait for my order at his “table,” then triumphantly gives me invisible soup with a side of invisible broccoli. Occasionally, I receive genuine food—half a tortilla folded like a taco or apple slices. Once he claimed a banana with shredded cheese was “dessert nachos.”
I still consumed it.
Because in his opinion, this is more than play. It’s his method of spreading happiness, of giving. His method of controlling something while the world around him remains somewhat large and chaotic.
again, every now and again, he climbs onto my lap following still-aproned, sticky-fingered work and asks, “Did you like what I made?”
Those times break me. Though I have been questioned many times about if I like his “invisible soup” or “dessert nachos,” I always grin and respond, “It was fantastic, buddy.” It’s not about the food, though, since in those basic moments when he looks up at me with those large, eager eyes. It’s about the link. It’s about him wanting to make me happy, to prove to me that he has something to give. And in his small universe, that’s all.
But suddenly, something unanticipated took place. One time, when he was “cooking” a complex dish using three full bananas and half a jar of peanut butter, I had a thought. What if I could really value his enthusiasm? What if we could transform his passion for cooking into something that may educate him about actual food, genuine recipes, and even some responsibility? The idea remained with me, hovering at the rear of my head.
The following morning, I donned my apron with renewed determination.
I told him, “Today will be different,” capturing his notice. How about we create something genuine together? You can still be the cook; I’ll be your assistant.
His face shone like a Christmas tree. “Seriously?! Actual food?
“Really,” I answered, grinning. You say what to do; I’ll follow.
A simple pasta dish was our starting point. Marinara sauce on spaghetti. It wasn’t anything spectacular, but to him, it could as well have been a five-star dinner.
He told me how long the noodles should cook, ordered me to boil the water, and told me to add salt—always more salt, as he said. His directions were exact, almost as though he were a seasoned cook with decades in the kitchen. It was amazing the happiness on his face as he pointed to the components, ordered me about, and explained how to whisk the sauce. He didn’t only want to play; he wanted to act. Somehow, even at four years old, I was astonished at how much he knew about eating.
We assembled the dinner. Though the sauce was too thin and there was too much garlic, it was not ideal; yet, it was unimportant. It was genuine and ours. Sitting down to dinner together made me proud. Not of the meal—though, unexpectedly, it wasn’t terrible—but of him. Watching him develop before my eyes, picking up new knowledge, taking control, and succeeding at it in his own manner.
I told my partner the tale that evening. He chuckled, but his tone suggested some respect. You have a tiny cook there.
But it went beyond that. The following morning, pancakes were served. After that, scrambled eggs. After that, sandwiches. Every day, my tiny chef presented me with a fresh difficulty. Before long, he was instructing me rather than just cooking with me. A four-year-old describing the need of seasoning or the correct method for flipping a pancake made me aware of how little I actually knew about cooking. I started to see food more carefully and differently.
It was starting to be a bit custom. We would prepare and eat, then he would gaze up at me with a beaming smile expecting my consent. And I would always say to him, “Best meal ever.”
One day, though, everything changed. It was a typical Tuesday. The sun was bright, I was preparing to cook breakfast, and my son was already in the kitchen, apron on, ready to take command. But there was something in the air that felt odd. He wasn’t as eager as normal.
Hey, friend, what’s up? You look quiet today, I said, crouching next to him.
For a minute he hesitated, his gaze moving to the counter where our untouched components lay. His voice was low as he said, “I don’t know whether I’m a good cook.”
I was surprised. What do you mean? You are the greatest cook I know.
“I erred,” he murmured, his lips quivering. Yesterday I attempted to make pancakes, however… I scorched them. And I don’t know whether I’m a decent cook any longer.
Sitting next to him, I grasped right away what was happening. The tiny chef had gone through his first genuine failure, which had disturbed him. The notion that he could err was strange for someone who had always been so self-assured, so secure. It frightened him.
“Buddy,” I whispered softly, “you don’t have to be perfect to be a good chef.” Even the greatest chefs err. What counts is that you keep attempting.
His eyes were big as he gazed up at me. What if I screw up?
I grinned, “Particularly if you screw up.” You learn the most then.
So we prepared that morning. It was not a perfect dinner. There was a little bit of burnt toast, the eggs were a bit runny, but the delight in the kitchen more than compensated for it. My kid beamed as I commended his work, saying how pleased I was of him for returning to the kitchen following a blunder.
For both of us, it was a lesson: failure was only another stage in the journey, not the end. Like life, cooking was about showing up, doing your best, and learning from your errors rather than about always doing everything perfect. It was about having the guts to return to the kitchen despite things not going as expected.
A few weeks later, though, came the twist—the karmic side of this whole narrative. Practicing increasingly, gaining confidence, even beginning to play around with recipes on his own, my kid had been. Then one day, when I was really worn out from a hard day at work, he caught me off guard.
Mom, I cooked you dinner, he said grinning. Today, you are the guest.
Like we had begun with, he had prepared a straightforward pasta meal. Though not elegant, it was tasty. Sitting at the table and seeing him proudly serve the dinner he had prepared all by himself, I came to see that the kitchen had educated us both on something significant. He had discovered it was acceptable to fail; I had come to value the happiness of sharing and supporting another to develop.
In that split second, I had great thankfulness. Gratitude for my son, for his spirit, for the manner he showed me more than I could ever have taught him. Most of all, I appreciate the idea that occasionally we have to let go of our own anxieties and insecurities to recognize the lovely potential in others we love.
Therefore, the next time you find yourself confronting failure—or if someone you love does—remember that errors are only stepping stones. They help us develop not define us.
Share with others if you have ever experienced a moment when you learned from someone unexpected. Tell them that often those small failures, the ones that really educate us, are where growth starts rather than from success.
