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Photo of Larkin

Photo of Larkin

For the past few months Larkin has been helping me make coffee in the morning. This began as a way to pry her free from the books she makes us read as soon as we take her out of her crib. "Want to go downstairs and have breakfast?" we ask, after the third book. "Want to help Dada make coffee?"

"Yeah!" she says.

So I take my little barista downstairs and into the pantry. She stands on the countertop, and together we spoon French roast into the coffee filter (well, more or less into it). At the sink she watches as I fill the pot with water. "Is that enough?" I ask, holding it up.

"Little bit more!" she commands.

I help her pour water into the machine, then I slide the pot into place and let her press the button. "Coffee on!" she squeals when the red light blinks on.

Larkin's kitchen help began early, almost as soon as she could walk. I'd take her food shopping, and when we got home, I'd put the bags on the kitchen floor, and she would help me unpack, stooping to pull out packages and cans. Later she began to diversify. She'd open and close the fridge; put toast in the toaster and push the handle down. "Hot!" she'd say with alarm at Molly's steaming cup of tea, then blow on it with gusto.

I want Larkin to love food, in all its aspects. In October we took her to a local farm to tramp through the pumpkin patch; this summer we'll go fruit picking. Farm and market excursions will give her a glimpse of how things are raised and grown and harvested and sold before they end up on our table. It's a way to help make connections between the world inside our home and the big beyond.

And, I hope, to foster a love of cooking — that skill combines creativity, nourishment, and pleasure like no other. My own joys of cooking trace back to time spent hanging out with my mother in her kitchen. I loved that room: its warmth, always five degrees above the rest of the house; its garish 1970s psychedelic floral wallpaper; and the kitchen table itself, a hand-hewn pine table that various cats over the years had used as a scratching post, clawing away at one leg until the knots in the wood stood out grotesquely.

The kitchen was the heart of our home, and its cozy conviviality and constant traffic made the other rooms feel formal and deserted in comparison. I liked being there when my father would come up the back porch, whistling this little four-note melody he deployed to announce he was home from work. Sometimes I'd help my mother sift or stir or pound or fry. Other times I'd just sit there, perched atop the green-painted kitchen stool. The stool had a fold-out mini-stepladder, and I would pull it down and climb up, my tasting spoon in hand.

I know my mother made some dishes I didn't like (boiled New England supper comes to mind); but mostly I recall a hit parade of favorites. Spaghetti, of course. Swiss steak. Spanish rice. Straw and Hay for the Pope. Baked Fish Daufuskie. Beef brisket. There was a chicken dish, whose recipe my mother had gotten from her friend Bunny, that everyone in our family always laughingly called Bunny's Breasts. And many, many more. Today I have these recipes in a little box out in the pantry, on notecards written in my mother's hand. She copied out all my favorites and gave them to me years ago, when I started living on my own. My sister has my mother's own recipe box — she got it when Mom died, 18 months ago — and eventually she's going to photocopy its contents for me.

I think about how much family history, how much love really, is stored up on those splotched, stained cards. For a while after my mother died I had trouble using them; even now it's hard for me to face her handwriting. But I know how much she'd enjoy seeing what I'm cooking up. Over time those recipes will help me tell Larkin about her grandmother,whose life overlapped with hers for only six short months.

I'm looking forward to that. And the time isn't too far off. Every day it seems Larkin gets more involved in what I'm doing in the kitchen. She helps wash fruits and veggies. Stirs spaghetti sauce in the pot. Dumps sliced shallots into a plastic bag of flour and helps me shake it up. At the cutting board I hold her hand around a knife and carefully guide her through the slicing of a tomato. To facilitate all this I brought a small aluminum stepladder up from the basement — Larkin's own version of the stool I had as a kid.

My mother was totally at home in the kitchen, an effortless multitasker who gracefully managed stovetop, oven, cigarette, and conversation all at once. She was a better cook than I am, with a lighter touch. It's hard to imagine that Larkin, not exactly a delicate toddler, might someday develop that touch. But the eagerness is there, that's for sure. "Dada cooking!" she'll say, seeing me at the stove. She runs over to where her stool stands propped beneath the windowsill, and with a mighty effort hauls it over.

"Larkin help Dada cook!" she shouts and bangs in glee upon the stepladder. I unfold it in front of the counter, and up she climbs.