Cooking with Evey

It's Saturday afternoon and I am spending time with Eve. Or rather, she is spending time with me.

I am in the kitchen at the peninsula preparing a Cheddar Jalapeño Cornbread and she is on the other side of the peninsula. She has pulled up a chair and immediately began scanning the countertop's vast wealth of food and ingredients.

She wants to help.

Eve is one of those wonderful kind of people who lets you know in no uncertain terms that she will be a part of your life and that you will like it. She's very adept at ignoring body language (what 2 year old isn't?) and plunges herself into any project I am doing with great vim and vigor. I have watched this child push herself in the middle of a group of older children, beam a dimpled smile at them and win over children twice her age... children who had earlier shunned her as unsuitable play-friend material.

I mixed the dry ingredients. Eve saw the sugar lying on top of the dry mixture. She grabbed a cracker sitting on the counter and plunged her fat little hands into the dry mixture, trying to grab as much sugar on top of her cracker.

"No thank you," I say as politely as possible and quickly take it away from her.

I add the milk and eggs. "Don't touch," I warned her.

"Counta da eggs! One. Two. Fee. Four." She eyes me, hoping I'll look elsewhere. "No touch," I remind her.

With lightning speed she confiscates the whisk. "I stir! I stir," she celebrates. I tell my nerves to hush as I marvel at her "skill". Or tenacity.

Next came the shredded cheese. Oh, the cheese. How I forgot how much she loves cheese. I pour 2 cups of shredded cheddar in the bowl. I barely catch her from plunging both her hands into the bowl. I offer her a bowl of her own. She shoves the entire bowl into her mouth, pushing the bits of cheese with both hands. I love watching 2 year olds eat.

I add the green onions. "Hep you! Hep you!" She runs to the utensil drawer and pulls out a very dull knife. It's practically round; it's used for spreading soft cheeses. She helps me cut and we put them in the bowl. She stirs the concoction once more.

Next I cut up the Jalapeño. She nearly chomps on a ripened pepper and bawks at me as I rip it from her hands. "It's ouchy, Eve. Ouchy." Sweet mercy, this child keeps me hopping.

We mix the last of the ingredients. I pop it in the oven, thankful that it's safe from little hands.

Truthfully: I'm exhausted. I can't do one thing without Eve wanting to be in the mix. Ironically, this is one of the things I adore about her.

Years from now, I will have a clean-er kitchen. My grocery shopping trips will be quicker. My laundry will stay folded when I put it in the basket. I'll cook dinner wicked fast.

Something tells me that it won't matter and that I'll miss my little helper.

Thanks for your help, Evey.