There are few things in life more satisfying than spending time with my daughter in the kitchen. Which is a good thing since I’m afforded plenty of it, as 10-minute solo projects frequently
threaten the half-hour mark with the addition of my little “helper.” And that’s not her fault, but Dad’s.
No, she’s not ready for Iron Chef as far as speed goes, but at least she gets stuff done. My productivity goes straight into the gutter, however, as I hover over her like a police ‘copter hoping she doesn’t injure herself. Now in fairness to me, my daughter lacks a certain sense of self-preservation innate to most sentient beings. In fact, we were at the emergency room just last week getting a little gash on her forehead closed up from a severe car-washing accident. Don’t ask.
So needless to say, she’s definitely not afraid of something like a big ol’ chef’s knife. And she doesn’t need any help cutting fruits and vegetables, thank you very much. Recently, though, I came across a nifty little item that has lowered my blood pressure and even allowed me to (gasp) turn my back for minutes at a time and actually hold up my end of the cooking bargain while she’s manning the cutting board: