Holding her largest mixing bowl, Mom vigorously stirred the batter. As if making cookies wasn’t enough work, she was multitasking by making our evening meal at the same time. Glancing at the stove top, Mom grumbled under her breath, “Tisk, why isn’t that burner heating up?” Impatiently, she put her right hand on the electric coil and instantly pulled back with a yelp. It was hot, just not glowing red.

Jumping up from where I had been sitting at the kitchen table, I questioned, “Mom! How badly did you burn your hand?”

Running cold water over her hand at the sink, my mother ruefully commented, “That was a stupid thing to do.” The imprinted rings of the burner could be seen on her fingers and palm, but other than the skin being tender, the burn was surprisingly superficial. Allowing the cold water to continue running over her hand, Mom instructed, “Put the pot of potatoes on that burner.”

I usually never cooked or baked with Mom while I was growing up. I always had the feeling that she preferred to work alone. She never asked for help, even when she was rushed or trying to get other things done at the same time. For years I sat at the kitchen table watching her work and assumed this would help me know what to do someday when I had to make meals.

I know for certain that I did learn a few things. With Mom’s hand burn incident, I learned two things. One was how to injure yourself without saying a single bad word. The second thing I learned was to never touch the stove top, even if it didn’t look hot.

One other thing I learned stands out in my memory. A bag of powdered sugar fell out of a cupboard while Mom was reaching for something behind it. The sugar covered the counter, drawer-fronts, and cabinet doors below with a white film of powder. Everything she washed had to be washed a second time to get rid of the sticky sugar residue. As she worked, Mom commented, “This is why a person should never work at a kitchen counter with doors and drawers hanging open. If anything had been open, I’d have a lot more cleaning to do.”

When Arnie and I got married, all I knew how to make was popcorn, and fudge. I was also in the process of learning how to make a cake from a cake mix. For the first year or two of our marriage, I wobbled along with my basic cooking knowledge, making many mistakes but learning from them. For example, I learned not to serve brats that had grown slimy; it made Arnie very sick. I also learned that cans that say pumpkin pie filling are not to be dumped into a pie shell just as it comes. It just makes a pie that looks like and tastes like mud. Milk, eggs, sugar, and spices make huge difference. When I tried to make bread for the first time, my loaves looked like hard rocks from outer space.

I learned to love cooking and baking. Besides enjoying the food I make, I get a kick out of mixing the ingredients and transforming them into tasty meals by using the heat of an oven or skillet. The whole process makes me feel like a mad scientist doing chemistry experiments, especially when I do free-range cooking. That is, cooking without a recipe.

Meatloaves and soups are wonderful things to make when you are in the mood to do free-range cooking. Use your imagination when selecting ingredients. I recommend that you write down what you put into the meatloaf or soup. It’s disappointing to make a meal so good that everyone wants you to make it again, but you can’t remember how.

I once told my sister, “A person needs to know the rules of cooking before they can break the rules to change things.” I have made a few epic failures. Luckily, most of my free-range cooking experiments turn out really good.

I get ideas about things I’d like to try, like in December I wondered, “How would tapioca pudding taste if I used eggnog to make it?” It turned out great!

I generally follow Mom’s rule about never working at the kitchen counter with the cupboards and drawers hanging open.  The few times I broke that rule, I nearly punched a hole in my skull by running it into the corner of an open cabinet door. But lately something has been wrong with one of my cupboard drawers under the counter. It won’t shut all the way, leaving a half inch gap.

When I made tapioca, I reached into the cupboard for the pint jar containing the pearls, and it slipped out of my hand. As if in slow motion, I watched it summersault and crash-land on my quartz countertop. The glass jar shattered on the unyielding surface like a bomb. Glass flew in every direction. Small tapioca beads bounced around like miniature table tennis balls that were prone to static electricity. I found glass and tapioca under the bookshelf in the dining room, on the opposite side of the kitchen, under the stove and the refrigerator. Somehow, some of it got into the oven broiler drawer. With great trepidation, I opened the drawer that wouldn’t close all the way. The bottom of it was covered in small glass shards and white beads. Every single pot, pan and lid inside the drawer needed to be cleaned.

I managed to have this experience without saying any bad words.  Afterwards, as I cleaned up the mess, I even had the grace to comment, “Thanks Mom! At least tapioca doesn’t leave a sticky residue like powdered sugar.”