I’ve always viewed the kitchen with a sense of dread and resignation. With the onset of the pandemic during my freshmen year, my younger brother’s daycare shut down — leaving me as a makeshift guardian. While my parents worked, it was my duty to balance online classes, keep him entertained and yes, make sure he was fed. And let’s be honest, a freshman in high school isn’t exactly the epitome of culinary expertise.
Stepping into the kitchen for the first time, I faced a formidable challenge: satisfying the appetite of a six-year-old whose taste buds were more accustomed to chicken nuggets than to any form of culinary experimentation. Fueled by optimism, Monster energy drinks and five-minute YouTube videos, I decided that stir-fry was my best hope — it’s supposed to be simple, right? Yet, my talent for somehow burning almost anything, including water, gave even this ‘simple’ dish a run for its money.
Those early days, filled with smoke alarms and charred vegetables, were trying. I quickly learned that cooking was more about intuition and less about following a recipe to the letter. My brother, bless his heart, bravely soldiered through each new culinary disaster, although he was often more than happy to share his thoughts about my ‘gourmet’ dishes.
Those days in the kitchen not only taught me how to cook but also taught me about putting someone else’s needs before my own. Each meal, whether charred to a crisp or surprisingly edible, was a lesson in patience and learning to adapt to difficulty – skills that go beyond cooking. I found joy in his excitement on the rare occasion when a dish turned out right, and his encouragement made each failure a little less bitter.
The biggest takeaway? Love — for my little brother, for anything really — means doing things I’d rather not. It’s in the little daily, consistent sacrifices that truly make a difference. Whether for something relatively minor like studying or picking up a new talent or for larger societal issues like conservationism, it’s the little things that make a difference.
And hey, at least I can make a mean stir fry now. Through trial and error, and more burnt pans than I care to admit, I’ve come to appreciate the art of cooking, and even more so, the time spent with my brother in those moments.
