Losing Myself in Motherhood, Finding Myself Again in Cooking

I quickly succumbed to the belief that in becoming a mother, I didn’t just have to put my needs on the back burner —  I had to put them in the trash. But as the haze of the newborn phase cleared, I realized how unsustainable, and in some ways how unfulfilling, this myth was. As I untangled my love for my child from the need to utterly self-sacrifice, I started to realize I could satisfy both our needs, pursue both our goals, and nurture both our persons, all while adding another new baby to the mix.

To avoid falling back into bad habits, and to jumpstart my creativity, I set the goal to cook 52 new recipes, one per week, for a year, even with a newborn and a one-year-old both clamoring for attention. 

The first week of January, my toddler and I attempted homemade fettuccine with chicken and mushrooms. She refused to touch, let alone knead, the gooey dough, but she gleefully dusted the work surface, herself, her hair, and the floor, with flour. She had also recently shattered our ceramic rolling pin, so we tried using a water glass to roll the noodles which left them irregular and thick, more like a dumpling than a noodle. The meal was edible, but little more. Still, it was a start.

The next week we notched two recipes: eggplant parmesan boats and blackened salmon. Homemade soft pretzels with beer cheese were followed by bourbon peach pork chops. We experimented with new preparations of common ingredients like cabbage and flank steaks and short ribs and butternut squash. We traversed the globe with attempts at pho, lo mein, polenta, chimichurri, enchiladas, and strudels. We swapped out our traditional chocolate birthday cake recipe for raspberry lemon, chocolate strawberry, and a dairy-free banana smash cake — a recipe that I conceived, wrote, and executed myself. And yes, there were muffins. French toast muffins and strawberry muffins, scones and focaccias, crumbles and cheesecakes, and cookies and bars of every flavor. 

Strangely, what initially seemed like a lofty goal came easily. I was genuinely excited to pencil in something new to our meal plan each week. In total, 58 recipes were made in 2021. Some were made with my toddler in her countertop tower as she scooped sugar or peeled brussel sprouts or stirred a sauce. For some, I had a newborn snuggled against me in a baby carrier. And then other recipes demanded solitude so I could focus on a series of multi-tasks or whip out the large knives to prep and chop. That alone time was some of my first as a mom where I didn’t feel guilty or selfish. In those moments, I was working to feed my family and nourishing the creative part of me.

In a year of creative cooking, I learned that I rarely intuitively season things enough, so I should always add another pinch of salt, another teaspoon of cumin or chili powder or ginger, or a splash of vinegar or citrus at the end to wake things up. I learned how long to braise a short rib until it gives way to a silky indulgence. I learned celery seed is potent and should be used very, very sparingly. But I also learned that setting an individual goal and investing in my own hobbies was not and is not selfish. I learned that taking time where I step away from the role of mama and allow myself the freedom to have my own aspirations, my own ideas, even my own fun, actually allowed me to serve my family better. Much how baking once greased the creative skids for my best writing, it now gives me a mental release that lets me reattack motherhood refreshed. 

We repeated the experiment again the next year. We took it a step further and planted a garden from which to harvest lettuce, tomatoes, strawberries, and zucchini. So, so much zucchini. I taught my children about seasonal ingredients and focused our menus around them. We frequented the weekly farmers market. My daughter adopted a favorite “pear guy.” She learned to count by scooping flour and sugar. What began as a much- needed solo reboot, blossomed into a multi-layer learning experience for our whole family.

I will admit that in year two, I had two opinionated and suddenly picky toddlers who did not eat some of the end results, but I hope my two little sous-chefs have at least witnessed the joy and peace this hobby brings their mom. That’s valuable nourishment in itself.