How my kids learnt to cook

My kitchen has always been the loudest room in the house. Two small people, one slightly frazzled mum, and a permanently sticky floor. But somewhere between the splashes, the spills and the burnt toast, my kids have quietly learnt how to cook for themselves.

When they were tiny, I would sit them on a chair dragged up to the sink and let them “wash” the vegetables. In reality, it was 80% water play, 20% actual cleaning, and 100% soaked T‑shirts, but they were touching real food, feeling the difference between a carrot and a pepper, and learning that dinner does not magically appear from the oven. My youngest went through a phase where every potato needed its own little chat before it was rinsed. It took ages, but she was practising care and attention in her own way.

As they grew, so did the jobs. I started giving them a child‑safe knife and a chopping board, always with something soft and forgiving like mushrooms or strawberries. The first time my eldest chopped a whole punnet of mushrooms on her own, she puffed her chest out and announced to the room, “I basically made dinner.” Technically, I had sweated onions and juggled three pans, but that sense of ownership is exactly what I wanted her to feel.

Eggs were the big milestone. Both of them were obsessed with cracking eggs long before they were remotely good at it. For a while, every omelette began with me fishing shell shards out of the bowl while they peered in proudly, convinced they had nailed it. Now they tap confidently on the side of the bowl, thumbs in, clean split, and it is such a clear reminder of how small, repeated chances to “have a go” turn into actual skill.

Now, I can see how much that messy practice has shaped who they are around food. They are better eaters because they cook what they eat, and they are genuinely more curious about new ingredients and flavours, simply because they have handled them with their own hands. They understand how dinner comes together, they appreciate the work behind it, and they are less likely to turn their noses up at something they have helped chop, stir or season.

All of that time at the counter has done more than fill their tummies. Their fine motor skills have come on from all the chopping, pouring and stirring, and they are slowly learning teamwork and patience as they wait for their turn, share jobs and see that good food takes time. We bicker, we laugh, we burn the odd pancake, but we also stand there as a little team, making something real together.

If you had told me a few years ago that letting a three‑year‑old loose with a sink full of water and a colander could lead to two children who can actually help make dinner, I would have laughed. But here we are: one stirring a pan, the other laying the table, both knowing that feeding yourself is normal, not a mysterious adult job. It is slower, it is messier, and yes, sometimes I finish things off after bedtime, but it is also one of the best bits of motherhood I did not see coming.