And then he came home and, yes, he seemed more adult. And, yes, the ninth grade was forged into a stronger group. But above all, I now had a son who could cook. He took over the special mashed potatoes we make at Thanksgiving, and he got very good at making an Armenian pomegranate dip. He acquired a George Foreman grill and became a specialist in grilled panini. He could, in a pinch, turn out an old family favorite of dubious ethnic integrity that we call spaghetti pastramara.
It started as a kind of trick: We’ll teach you to cook and you’ll use it to get out of splitting kindling. But it’s not a trick, it’s a real message about what it means to grow up and go out on your own. Know how to make the things you like and need. Take care of yourself properly, and you will also be able to take care of other people.
And that’s the meaning of parenthood. Because, after all, the subtext is always about getting a child ready to go away and grow away, about equipping him for a journey that must leave you behind. But it is somehow a comfort to know that as your child takes that journey, when the moment comes—as it often does—for spaghetti, he will know how to make the sauce.
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