Making Bruschetta

So Friday I take Jett to a free cooking class hosted by a local parenting group at a new, local cooking store for kids. I had to rsvp for this event, which I did well ahead of time. We arrived early so Jett could get a feel of the place. The store was already packed.

Then more families came in. And more, and more, and more. Pretty soon there was hardly any space to move, no place to sit, and No Snacks. At a cooking store, hosting a free cooking class for kids, no snacks. But oh yes, there were snacks. They were in my diaper bag for one minute, and then they were in every kids mouth, because apparently I was the only parent to bring snacks, and there is not a kid alive who does not want a snack from someone else's diaper bag.

Anyway, the cooking instructors could only teach six kids at a time. They didn't take the kids in the order they arrived, which would have made sense, since the kids who arrived earliest and were still waiting, like my kid, were getting the most squirrely. They didn't take the kids who were sitting at the empty table patiently eating their (Jett's) snacks. They took the kids who ran to the table first. Jett would never run to a table full of strangers first. This was a problem.

After three or four groups of kids had gone ahead of us, I finally figure out where to stand to ensure that I can get to the table, and when the group ahead of us finishes, I take Jett's hand and we step right up. Then he runs across the store. Then 7 more kids step up to the table. I can see Jett across the room, but I can't leave the table because I'm saving his space. The instructor will only take 6 kids at a time. I leave the table (although no one else did, and she still had one too many kids).

I walk over to Jett, take his hand, walk back to the table and lurk until some kid's older sister finally leaves. She leaves an empty space at the table and Jett and I scoot in to it. Jett is the 7th kid. The instructor looks at me. I say to Jett, and the instructor, that we are here at the table to watch what the kids are doing so we'll know what to do when it is our turn. The instructor doesn't buy it, and hands Jett a bowl. We're in!

The instructor then passes around a cup of chopped tomoatos for each kid to dump in to their bowl. Jett helps me in the kitchen at home, so I know he has trouble dumping food in to the bowl and not on the floor, so I reach out to help him, which he did not mind. The other instructor walks by and catches my eye and says that she's caught me! Caught me helping my child! Oh no!

At that point I look around the table and realize that there was only one other mother standing with her child. All of the other kids were coping, and cooking, just fine on their own. Maybe they were older, I don't know. When I looked at the other mother with a smile, hoping for solidarity, I got none. I felt labeled as a hovering mother.

Then our cooking teacher hands a teaspoon of olive oil to Jett, who won't take it. He still won't take it. I reach out to take it, because other kids are waiting for the spoon, and she won't hand it to me. Apparently she does not notice that every time she tries to make eye contact with Jett he buries his face in my chest so quickly and so forcefully that he knocks me into the little boy standing behind us. But she will not hand that teaspoon to me, and finally, reluctantly, Jett takes it. I remember not to help him dump the olive oil in the bowl, and he does just fine. (Ok, lesson learned). I don't appreciate, however, the smug look on our cooking teacher's face.

We go through a similar routine with every item - the garlic, the bread, the basil, the olive oil to brush on the bread. Except Jett won't take any item from the cooking teacher at all. I want him to, I really do, but I also want to give that smug look right back to that teacher because, excuse me, I know my kid, and if I'm telling you to hand the olive oil brush to me, hand it to me. He will take it from me, and brush his bread, without any injury to the poor kid behind me.

The only item Jett will take is a bowl of salt from the kid standing next to us. He even dips his fingers in, takes a pinch, and throws it in the bowl. The final touch, and it looks delicious. Whole grain bread (with no garlic rubbed on ours), just waiting for it's blanket of tomatoes. But he has no interest in the tomato mixture he's just created.

He does, however, wait until the cooking instruction is finished, and then walk over to the shelf where the brushes and bowls of olive oil are waiting, pick up a brush, and paint his bread with olive oil. At least he'll eat the bread, I think, and then give me a taste. But no. No bite for Jett, no bite for mama. We just got the heck out of there.