chef boo-boo

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I decided you and I would make some mother-daughter memories (and some pancakes) this morning. We donned aprons, measured and stirred. You watched and listened and exhibited uncharacteristic caution and attentiveness to my instructions.

Then… you, my strong-willed little girl, touched the pan, despite multiple warnings. You were horrified. Rightly so. It’s not a bad burn, but it certainly made an impression on you. You’re repeating it, like some sort of healing mantra: boo-boo. boo-boo.

I’m not sure your fierce, power-through determination would’ve served you so well in… say, an Inuit tribe. I’ve wondered about those other cultural approaches to rearing children where lessons are taught by experience, even the tough and painful experiences. Makes sense to me. I’ll keep you posted on whether this works for you to teach you about how, when cooking, things are hot. We shall see.

For now, it’s aloe and a frozen boo-boo pack in the shape of a star… for my burning hot baby girl.

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