Have you ever wondered why so many famous chefs are male? Me, too. I should have some insights because I have sons.
Let me explain.
Back in the day, pushing the beaters into my mixer was guaranteed to bring at least one family member into the kitchen. A lot like the cat when I pop the top of the can of food: focused. She can bring blood on her way to the food dish. The cat, I mean.
So I popped in the mixer beaters, and my four-year-old son appeared at my elbow. No blood. Yet.
“Let’s make shape cookies,” he said, pushing a chair to the counter.
The process of making shape cookies cutters was more complex. But this was a teaching moment for my young chef. I was proud he wanted me to teach him. Well, I was going to teach him whether he liked it or not.
We mixed our cookie dough.
“Now, we start with a ball, like this.” I scooped a handful of dough from the bowl and rolled it in my palms.
He watched intently, his nose drawing closer and closer to my hands. He was a good student, obviously impressed with my culinary skills.
“Then I put the ball on the counter,” I said.
I set the pale ball of dough lightly on the flour I had sprinkled out. The sweet scent of cookie dough filled the air. “We use a rolling pin to flatten the dough.”
He didn’t take his eyes off the ball of dough. I flattened the lump into a thin flat pancake and let him press the cookie cutters into it.
He selected a star. “That one looks like an explosion.” An explosion?
He was so creative. Did chefs frequently work explosions into their creations? Maybe that was how creme brûlée came into existence? To have an excuse to use a torch? A precursor to an explosion?
“I’ll do it this time,” he told me after the first batch was transferred to cookie sheets.
I took that to indicate the success of my teaching skills. He was ready for his first baby step as a chef. I was so proud.
He clutched a handful of dough from the bowl and squeezed it hard. Like a muscle man grasping a handgrip.
“Well, you might not…“ I started to coach him, but I was too late.
He slapped the crushed dough onto the counter and began pounding it with the side of his fist. Thud! Thud! A punching ball endured fewer strikes than that ball of dough. The mixture finally surrendered into an uneven flat lump of defeated cookie dough.
For me, baking cookies is about the aroma and flavor.
For my would-be chef, it was more about hand-to-hand combat.
