Kindergarten? More Important Than You'd Believe

  • By Mike Dewey
  • November 13, 2013
  • 453
                        
SUMMARY: Is it possible that Mike Dewey's love for cooking started in a kindergarten class? You might find the answer surprsing and discover something essential. So what we’re dealing with is kindergarten and, so far as I know, it’s still a viable institution, a gateway to the realm of higher education. Of course, for all I know, it’s gone the way of the typewriter and correct punctuation, much the way “please” and “thank you” seem to have exited the conversational stage. Which is fine, I suppose; after all, just because I remember what I was taught in kindergarten doesn’t mean that you do, too. But that’s why I’m here ... to remind you of what you might have forgotten. Not that I’m the Politeness Police. Far from it. I’m actually stunned when a stranger says something like, “I appreciate what you do.” It knocks me out. Not that I count on that kind of affirmation – that would be ridiculous and, worse, self-serving – but I believe we’re all entitled to a little love when it comes to making our way through a world that is too often too cold. Which takes us back to kindergarten, a German word that means, literally, children’s garden. I like that. So there I was, all of five years old, and the teacher – a very pretty lady, as I recall – was doing her best to instill in the 25 of us important lessons, things that would serve us well as we climbed the mountain. “A college degree,” she said, “isn’t something I can give you, but I can give you a good start.” Pretty and smart. There was a strict structure to our kindergarten classes and there was none of this half-day nonsense that’s apparently all the rage; of course, kids start school when they’re mere months from the womb. Parents get put on waiting lists even as their offspring are just discovering what it’s like to walk. When I was that age ... well, I won’t lie to you, the last thing I wanted to do was to be stuck in school. I could do the math. If I made it through, I’d graduate from Notre Dame – oh, yes, I knew even then I’d be a Golden Domer – in, gulp, 1977. Trust me. In the fall of 1960, all I could do was laugh. BECAUSE KINDERGARTEN was great fun, at least it was to me. The teacher – have I mentioned that she was a knockout? – had it all together and she was, well, a presence. With a capital P. Her kindergarten was a klassroom: structured and serious, though there was nap time which, I’ll admit, bored me so I mostly skipped it. “Michael,” my teacher would say, “don’t you want to join the others?” She’d mimic a sleeping gesture – hands folded under her chin – and I’d say something like, “No.” Mom would look at report card – oh, yes, we had those back then, even in kindergarten – and she’d shake her head. “You don’t take naps?” she’d ask. I didn’t know how to explain how it was, that all that sleepy-stuff I could do at home and I wasn’t in school to waste time and all I wanted to do was learn, learn, learn. “I’m never tired,” I said, “in the daytime.” My mother understood, I think, because she was on the same schedule; in other words, there was always something to do. Which brings us to that fateful February day when, since it was my birthday, I was given first choice as to what I wanted to do during “activity time.” The choices weren’t all that complicated. Either I could build stuff with big blocks or I could pretend to cook. Sure. Go ahead. Laugh. I know, I know: a guy’s supposed to play with big blocks but for some reason, that morning, I felt the urge to hang out in the kitchen. “Are you sure, Michael?” the teacher asked me. I’d like to invite her to Thanksgiving dinner, if I could. MY WIFE HAS COME to rely on my cooking expertise, especially when we have company. “You’ll do it, right?” she’ll ask, “and make it just like you always do?” And, of course, over the last 25 years or so, I’ve gotten better and better in the kitchen. I might not be able to install a car battery but I’ll baste a turkey to perfection. Back in kindergarten, I knew only a few things, but I knew the difference between a soup ladle and a saucepan. Summertime, though, meant serious baseball and I’d admire the way Dad would work his magic on the charcoal grill. See, that’s it. I wasn’t embarrassed about beint the only boy in the kitchen that kindergarten day ... far from it. Building blocks, I’d done ... baking bread, that was something I wanted to do. OK, I knew that by choosing that option, I’d be surrounded by girls but even at six, I got the drift. Years and years later, I’d go with that same feeling and decide to lend a hand in the kitchen, saying to my friends, “I’ll be in there,” And that’s the way it was and still is. With Thanksgiving on the away, my wife is certain that I can pull off a six-course meal for however many folks turn up and she’s right. Confidence – whether you’re playing first base or preparing oysters for a perfect stuffing – is half the battle. If you sure you can do it, you probably can. The rest of it is, well, gravy. Make sure you’ve got the XM radio tuned to a fine station or, even better, keep the records playing and, if it’s going to be an hour or so before supper’s served, load up on Bob Marley, Dylan, the Allman Brothers and the Beatles. Just a suggestion ... avoid disco, because if I’m invited, I’ll smash those LPs against the nearest wall and you don’t want that. Too much vinyl spoils the broth. Might have been something I learned back there in kindergarten, along with how to add, subtract, read and write. Hmm. Add in cooking and dancing and smiling and winning and you pretty much have a recipe for my life. Too bad I never learned how to make a meal out of those big blocks. Mike Dewey can be reached at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. You can find his work on Facebook.


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