Snap Peas.

“This is your center, and this is your quarterback. Who snaps the ball and passes it?”

“The knife?”

It’s come to this – football analogies to explain the finer points of wielding cutlery. Because I am simply out of ideas. And because if I have to crawl under the table to pick up one more kernel of corn or flake of fish the resident chef is going on strike. Or we’re moving the kitchen table outside. 

It’s not that my children belong in a cave. They’re just as messy and carefree as anyone else’s kids. But right at that point when table manners and nutritional choices are instilled, our lives went hurtling off the smooth little track we had been riding along with things like routines and table manners. By the time I emerged from the haze I had sunken beneath and friends and family had taken their leave, the damage was done. The kitchen was no longer the center of our home and our family. 

It was ground zero.

In the morning it was cold and empty and at night it was heated with anger and frustration. It wasn’t just because he was gone. It was because it was his domain, relinquished to me only for the purposes of cleaning and cookie baking. When he was here, I could happily hand over the spatula to someone who truly liked using it. Once he was gone, I didn't dislike being thrust into hell’s kitchen.

I loathed it.

Months after he was gone I rushed through the dinner hour, brushing aside etiquette and the food pyramid in favor of ease and efficiency. As I rushed them through their adequately balanced meals, I avoided the table and raced through the dishes. 

Somewhere after the first year had passed I cautiously took my place, returning to what was left of the family dinner table as familiar conversations, awkward and disjointed, returned. As the second year ran its course, culinary irritation was replaced with comfortable acceptance.

I discovered utensils I didn’t know we owned and vegetables I didn’t know I liked. I learned to navigate my daughter’s eclectic food allergies and adventures were taken as they learned to love new tastes. Bananas and apples were usurped by raspberries and pomegranates, and freshly cooked meats and exotic rices replaced nuggets and fries. As time went on, the kitchen was filled more with the sound of sauté than the microwave’s incessant beeping.

But watching her march the peas down the field, knife snapping them to fork, I know that the kitchen will never really be my domain.

Because even now, there’s football at the dinner table.