One day at work, while I was enjoying my lunch of leftover crawfish etouffee, my co-worker walked by and said, “That smells good. Your wife must be a good cook.”
“Actually,” I said, “I cooked this.”
Looking at me dumbfounded, he stood silent for about a minute, and then said, “If you’re going to cook, why did you get married?”
His ignorance troubled me, especially in this era of Bobby Flay and Emeril Lagasse. Although women have made tremendous strides in social, political and business arenas, they are still expected to cook any bacon they bring home. I cook because I enjoy doing it, and I’m the better cook. My wife manages the rest of the household because she is much more organized than I am. We chose which responsibilities we wanted without regard to gender, and I believe our relationship has benefited because we aren’t pigeonholed into traditional male-female roles.
For me, the kitchen has always been a special place. It is the soul of any home, the place from which all the warmth and nourishment radiate. When I was younger, I’d spend holidays in the kitchen chopping onions, basting turkeys and preparing salads instead of watching sports with the men. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy spending time with my uncles and cousins. It’s just that the buzz of the kitchen was much more exciting than football games. My male cousins chided me for being a “mama’s boy,” but I never allowed their insults to damage my self-esteem or lessen my desire to cook. Even then, I realized knowing how to cook was much more valuable than knowing Walter Payton’s stats.
My mother, realizing the value in honing my culinary acumen, insisted that I sit in the kitchen with her as she prepared dinner each night. While she baked, sautéed and stewed delectable dishes, I noted each step and stored them all in my mental recipe book. I also retained the lessons on self-reliance, independence and creativity that my mother imparted as she cooked. Through these stove-side sessions, I learned not only how to be a good cook, but also how to be a good man.
Eventually, with my mother working all day and attending classes at night, cooking dinner became my responsibility. I started slowly with simple dishes such as chili, hamburgers and spaghetti. Although these early meals were barely edible, my mother ate them as if they were manna from heaven. Her quiet encouragement gave me the confidence not only to attempt more difficult recipes, but also to make them palatable.
My first challenge was my mother’s gumbo - a mixture of chicken, seafood and Cajun spices. I was so nervous when I first attempted the recipe because I knew that it would never compare to hers, but I had to try at least. The most difficult step was making the roux. Only the most skilled chef can fuse flour and oil into the golden-brown paste that is the soul of the gumbo. It took me five attempts to make the roux the right color and consistency. But when I finally got it right, the sense of accomplishment was immeasurable. The satisfied nod my mother gave me after she finished a bowl of my novice gumbo let me know that my lessons had paid off.
Now I’m sharing these lessons with my own children. They are always eager to help daddy in the kitchen. At 7 and 5, the kids are not old enough to handle knives or the stove, but they chip in by stirring batters or pouring seasonings. When they help to prepare the meals, they are more likely to eat their dinner because they have some ownership in it. Cooking meals together also allows the kids to spend a few minutes of uninterrupted time with dad. These special moments are what memories are made of.
Of course, cooking meals isn’t my only responsibility around the house. I still perform “traditional” male tasks such as fixing, installing, and lifting things. None of these will ever replace my love for cooking. Even if this confession forces me to rescind my membership in the “Macho Man” club, I am not ashamed.
Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad
Question: Who does the cooking in your household?
P.S. - A few people have asked for the Crawfish Etouffee Recipe so here it is. I usually don’t measure things when I cook, but I tried to estimate as best as I could:
I grew up poor. That fact became quite obvious to me when I started attending gifted schools in the wealthier areas of town. While all of the other kids had the latest fashions and the newest Atari video game systems, I had to settle for the clothes and toys that my mother could afford.
My mother was intent on breaking this cycle of poverty by making sure that I took advantage of every educational opportunity available. She could always find extra money for me to go on a field trip, attend art classes, or participate in computer camp. Her sacrifices enabled me to earn a college degree and obtain a career that allows me to live a comfortable life. Unfortunately, there aren’t enough African American parents who realize the correlation between education and poverty.
The percentage of African Americans living in poverty increased from 2000 to 2006 by an average of 0.82% per year, after having declined by an average of 1.25% per year in the 1990s. In 2006, 24% of African Americans were in poverty compared to 8% of whites.
Poverty rates were highest for families headed by single women, particularly if they were black or Hispanic. In 2004, both black and Hispanic female-headed households had poverty rates just under 40 percent.
These high poverty rates are unacceptable and should not occur in a country as wealthy as the United States. It is imperative that parents teach their children to value education and to take advantage of every opportunity to learn. It is well documented that people with a college education earn more money over their lifetime than people who do not. Education is truly the key to ending the cycle of poverty.
If you want to know what you can do to prevent poverty, start by reading a book to your child. It’s never too early to instill a love of learning.
Today my wife, K, and I went to our daughter’s Parent/Teacher conference. I’m embarrassed to say that this was the first conference that I have been to since she was in kindergarten (she’s in second grade now). Nee was ecstatic when she found out that I would be attending the conference. Actually, so was I.
K and I walked into the classroom and took a seat in those tiny elementary school chairs. I hoped that this conference wouldn’t last too long. My knees and back wouldn’t be able to withstand more than 15 minutes. The teacher opened the conference by telling us what a great student Nee was. She showed us reports from her other teachers who had similar comments. All in all, things went as expected. Nee is studious and respectful - traits that teachers adore.
I admired the fact that Nee was able to sit outside and play her Leapster confident that her teacher would say nice things about her. Her confidence made me think about some of the Parent/Teacher Conferences from my childhood. Let’s just say that my middle school years were not my shining moments. While the other kids were celebrating the day off, I dreaded the things my teachers would tell my mother.
She was understandably upset after my teachers told her how I had missed assignments, skipped class, and made several visits to the principal’s office. My mother, who earned barely above minimum wage, had to miss a day of work and ride the bus to my school only to hear that her son was not living up to her expectations.
“I’m not sending you to school to act a fool,” she would say before the spanking commenced. This cycle repeated throughout sixth and seventh grade. Until middle school, I was a model student, just like Nee. I guess I had some anger issues about my father’s not being there and needed to rebel.
Things turned around for me after my seventh grade English teacher gave us a writing assignment. Hers was one of the classes I often skipped to play basketball or wander the halls. I wish I could remember what the exact assignment was, but my feeble brain cannot recall it. I do remember that it excited me more than any middle school assignment ever had. The rest of the class was pretty excited, too. I was caught up in the wave of euphoria when one of my classmates, Helen, turned to me and said, “What are you excited about? You won’t turn in this paper, just like you haven’t turned in the others.” Her comment cut me to the core. What right did she have to call me out like that? I made up my mind to show her that I would turn it in and that mine would be better than anyone else’s.
Over the next few nights, I worked hard on that assignment to make sure that it was my best work ever. My teacher was shocked when I handed her the assignment on time. So was Helen. A few days later, my teacher returned the graded papers. However, I did not receive mine. Before I could protest, the teacher began praising my work to the entire class. She even gave me hug before handing me my paper. It had a big red “A” on it. I was happy because I hadn’t received an “A” on an assignment in a long time. At the end of class, Helen pulled me aside and said. “I’m proud of you.” I couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t this the same girl who had mocked me a few days earlier?
That experience changed my attitude towards school. From that point on, I stopped skipping class and became serious about my education. No more was I the troublemaker - I quickly became the kid that others asked for help with their homework.
After watching the Dark Knight (best Batman movie ever), I felt compelled to Google Morgan Freeman. When the results came up, I was pleasantly surprised to see some videos of his character, “Easy Reader” from “The Electric Company.” For those of you too young to remember “The Electric Company,” it was an educational television show on PBS. I thought of it as an edgier version of Sesame Street.
I couldn’t wait to see “The Electric Company” each day after school. The Easy Reader and Spider-Man segments were always my favorites. I loved Spider-Man because I am a comic book geek. Easy reader appealed to me because he reminded me of myself - a black male who loved words and reading. His soul brother persona was a bit over the top, but I didn’t mind at the time. It was the seventies after all.
So check out Easy Reader struttin’ his stuff. “Easy Reader, that’s his name, umm umm-umm! Readin’ Readin’, that’s his game, umm, umm-umm!”
Yesterday my wife and I took our daughter to her first day of second grade. She had been looking forward to this day for a long time and was very excited. After negotiating the first day of the car pool line, we managed to get into the school’s parking lot. As we searched for a parking space, my daughter asked, “What are you doing?” My wife responded, “We’re parking so we can take you to your classroom.”
A look of horror came across her face. “No,” she responded. “Just drop me off. I’ll go in by myself.” And with that proclamation, Nee let us know that she was independent. We stopped the van to let her out and watched as she ran to the gym to meet her new teacher and classmates. Of course you know that the story doesn’t end there. I took off work to take her to school, so I was determined to do so. We parked and sneaked to her classroom before the class arrived. When we got there, several other parents were already waiting to greet their little darlings. I was glad to see several other fathers. Our numbers did not come close to the number of mothers, but we made a respectable showing.
When Nia walked into the classroom, she was surprised to see us. I was surprised that there were two other African American girls in her class. As I mentioned before, Nee attends a private school, so I was glad to see that the school is becoming more diverse.
After meeting Nee’s teacher and visiting with a few of the other parents, I took a few pictures to document the day, and gave Nee a pep talk and a kiss good-bye. We walked away happy to see our little girl was settling into her first day of second grade.
Getting to this first day of school was not without drama. All summer, Nee and my wife fretted over which class Nee would be placed in and which of her friends would be in class with her. Each night, Nee prayed that her best friend would be in her class. My wife and I prayed that Nee would be placed with the best teacher for her. Of course, my wife had her own idea of who she thought was the best teacher, but we prayed nonetheless.
The class lists are sent out each year during the first week of August. As you can imagine, anticipation began to swell by the last week of July. My wife was at the mailbox everyday until that letter finally showed up. When she opened it, the look on her face told me that things didn’t work out the way she wanted them to. Nee was not placed in the preferred teacher’s class and to make things worse, Nee’s friend would not be in class with her either.
My wife was crushed and I knew that Nee would be even more devastated. The only thing I thought about was that Nee would believe that God doesn’t answer her prayers. The last time she prayed with such fervency was when my wife was pregnant with our third child. Nee already had a brother and she desperately wanted a little sister. When she found out that we were having a boy, she was inconsolable for at least 10 minutes. She has finally warmed up to her baby brother and loves him to death, but I knew that explaining God’s ways to her would be more difficult this time.
As expected, Nee burst into tears when she saw the list. She tried to throw the paper in the garbage as if that would make things better. The first thing out of her mouth was that God never answers her prayers. I hated to see my little princesses hurting like this and I didn’t know if I could say anything that would make her feel better and not lose her faith in God.
When she had calmed down, I explained to her that God doesn’t always answer her prayers the way the she expects Him to. I told her that there was a reason for God’s placing her and her friend in different classes. Perhaps, God wanted her to make friends with a new girl, or maybe He had a separate plan for her friend. I continued by letting her know that Daddy doesn’t understand why God arranged things the way that He did, but it is important that she has faith that God did the right thing. I could tell that she was still disappointed, but my talk seemed to help a little.
On the day before classes started, the school held an open house for parents and students to see their new classrooms and to meet the teacher. This is where Nee found out that God does indeed work in mysterious ways. This year, the school moved to a team teaching concept for the elementary grades. Therefore, Nee would be taught by the teacher that her mother desired. More importantly, she will be able to spend time with her best friend throughout the school day. Praise God!
Last night before bed, I read Hebrews 11:1 to Nee. It states: Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Because of here experiences in the past couple of weeks, Nee finally understood the meaning of this simple, yet complex verse.
For me, the start of the school year turned out to be an exercise in faith and sort of an emotional roller coaster. With a start like this, I’m looking forward to the rest of the year.
Today, I read an article about an organization called The Black Star Project that is sponsoring the Million Father March 2008 on the first day of school in nearly 300 cities. Their goal is to encourage fathers to take an active role in their children’s education. At first I was skeptical about this idea because I have grown weary of Million Marches. They generate much hype, but rarely bear any lasting fruit. However, I do support fathers being more involved with schools. Our schools are suffering because dads have not taken the lead in their children’s education. Class moms are abundant, but how many class dads do you see? Mothers have done their part to make sure that children have a quality education - everything from serving on PTAs to chaperoning field trips. It’s time for dads to take a stand.
Research shows that children whose fathers take an active role in their education perform better, enjoy school more and are more likely to graduate from high school and attend college. Isn’t an academically successful, well-adjusted, well-behaved child worth a few hours in the classroom?
I don’t claim to be perfect, but I have taken my daughter to every first day of school (okay, she’s only had two so far). Throughout the year, I schedule time to be a Mystery Reader, eat lunch with her, and to attend other school functions. I do the same for my son at his pre-school. Like most dads, work prevents me from being as involved as I would like to be. I plan to do more this year, though.
I challenge every father to take the first step by showing up on the first day of school. Your child will thank you. See you in the carpool line.
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