Yesterday I was given a gentle lesson in humility by my daughter, and to make matters worse it was in the kitchen. Now to me the kitchen is the most important room in the house. I belong there. Some more unkind people might say that I am difficult to work with in a kitchen, but that is not often the case. I admit that on rare bad days I do not suffer culinary fools gladly, and on even rarer worse days I don't take prisoners, but generally I am mellowing out, and do not throw sharp things at people.
Kate had been given a weekend school project - bake two loaves of bread, of which we would keep one and the other donated to the needy. It goes without saying that, on the weekend before the school Science Fair we needed this extra task like a hole in the head. No problem, I thought. I'll do it. No Dad, I'll do it, was the reply. Later on, with flour everywhere I again offered to help, and once more after that. Both times I was firmly put in my place. Dad, get out of the kitchen. I did.
Yet late afternoon we were all tucking in to chunks of some of the best bread I have tasted in a very long time. Thanks Kate! I swallowed mine dipped in olive oil, and also swallowed my pride.
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