The summer before my brother, who is eight years younger than me, started school, my mom went back to work at J. C. Penny. This meant that I was now responsible for preparing dinner for the family on the days she worked the late afternoon or evening shift. I was so proud of the first meal I prepare and was sure my father would love it. Yeah, not so much. After his first bite, I was greeted with, “What is this supposed to be?”

“It’s beanie weenie with biscuits. Do you like it?”

“No.”

Thus, began my cooking education. When mom was home, I stayed in the kitchen while she was preparing dinner and started to do things under her supervision. My meal planning repertoire grew quickly.

In September, I started seventh grade, and one of the required courses for girls was Home Economics, and I got the dreaded Mrs. Burlingame. My problems with the class began on the first day; when we learned that you can’t level flour by using the back of a knife, you must always scraper. “Well, my mother taught me the best way was to use a knife,” was my response.

Things didn’t go much better from there on, and once we started cooking, I was always grouped with the two other misfits in the class. They were misfits not because of their moms; they hated cooking and didn’t care what grade they got. On a Friday, one of our last projects was to make biscuits. The girl in charge of pre-heating the oven did something I don’t remember what, but when we had everything ready to bake, the oven was still cold. For punishment, Mrs. Burlingame decided that we would finish baking our biscuits on Monday and told us to put the dough in the cupboard. “It’ll be rotten by then,” I screamed. “No, it won’t; it will be fine. It’s either you bake them on Monday or take an F on this project.”

I left the classroom and headed to the Principal’s office to file my grievance. I don’t remember what he said; what I do remember is we didn’t bake the biscuits, nor did we get an F on the project.

By the last day of class, Mrs. Burlingame and I had had enough of each other, and as she was talking about the eighth grade Home Economics sewing class, which was an elective, she asked, “Did your mother teach you how to sew also?”

“Yes.”

“Please don’t take the class then.”

“No worry, I won’t.”