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.

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