I was a career woman, working right up until the day my son was born.
Although I was raised in a Chinese family, I never expected my parents to raise my son. I had been raised by my grandparents and loved them like parents, so when my mother and father took me away to another city when I was six, none of us were happy. That separation created family drama that lasted for years.
Deep inside, I made myself a promise: I would not leave my child with my parents. I wanted to watch him grow up every day.
My parents came to stay with us right after my son was born. I had just bought a house on top of a hill overlooking the city. There were only five other neighbors along our private driveway. I loved the serenity and privacy.
My parents did not.
They were used to apartment living in Beijing—neighbors to chitchat with, grocery stores steps away, buses everywhere, and hundreds of Chinese TV channels. At my house, they had only me and a long, sloping asphalt driveway.
By the end of three months, my dad had long hair, a beard, a neck browned by the California sun, and a desperate itch to talk to someone—anyone—in Chinese, as long as it wasn’t me.
They missed their neighbors. They missed their grocery stores. They missed Beijing.
So they went home, and my promise to myself came true. I found a local daycare and went back to work.
Many of you know me through my real estate newsletter, Full Bloom. Rose at Large is where I’m beginning to share the stories I kept private for years. I’m glad you’re here.
A 60-year-old Spanish woman helped run the daycare and prepared the food, so my son was raised on beans. Maybe that’s why he was so healthy right from the start.
As he got older, my culinary repertoire expanded dramatically: from jars of applesauce to macaroni and cheese, then to meatballs and pasta. I don’t know how he survived.
Then something wonderful happened. My son started watching cooking shows on TV.
Suddenly, mysterious objects began appearing around the house—mixers, measuring cups, fancy knives, spices, and cooking gadgets I didn’t even know existed.
My son learned to cook, and I was finally free from cooking for him.
He didn’t just survive my cooking;
He escaped it.
Many days, I came home from work to wonderful aromas drifting through the house: tomato sauce bubbling on the stove, bread dough rising in a big bowl, onions caramelizing on the lowest setting of the stove—a setting I didn’t even know existed.
This kid was serious.
He cut meat with the precision of a surgeon.
He arranged colorful vegetables with the eye of an artist.
He measured and mixed ingredients with the discipline of a chemist.
Eventually, some of his perfectionism rubbed off on me.
I learned to make turkey tacos with corn salsa.
I learned to make a hearty salad with nuts, fruit, and homemade vinaigrette.
I even learned to love red peppers after discovering homemade red pepper purée.
Little by little, cooking stopped feeling like something I had to do. I started to enjoy it.
My son is coming home in a few weeks to take a break from work. I can’t wait to cook with him—and I can’t wait to show him the new gadget I just bought.
A clay pot from France.
Look who’s serious about cooking now!
Many of you know me through my real estate newsletter, Full Bloom. Rose at Large is where I’m beginning to share the stories I kept private for years. I’m glad you’re here.