I was nearly nine when my oldest sister got married. One of my favorite things to do in the following years was to visit her. At one point, she and her husband and firstborn lived in the woods in a little cabin down a steep ridge. They didn’t have electric or indoor plumbing and when I would visit I’d have to haul my bags down the exhausting 75 steps that were built into the hill. I thought it was delightful and longed to live in a cute little place like that when I got married, too.
One day when I was visiting Betsie asked me what I wanted to do that day. I promptly replied that it had always been a dream of mine to make noodles. She assured me it would be a long process, but if I wanted to spend my time in the kitchen with her then she would be happy to oblige.
That day in the kitchen was a happy one – full of laughter and talking and reminiscent of when she lived at home and we cooked together nearly every day. What stands out in my mind the most though is when we were making supper to go along with the noodles we’d fashioned.
Betsie made venison burgers, then began chopping onions to go along with them. It wasn’t long until both of us had red, stinging eyes, so I asked her why in the WORLD anyone would go through such misery just to have onions to eat. She explained that since her husband liked onions she served them regularly. When I vehemently declared that when I got married and had my own kitchen I would never cook with onions, she laughed and said I might change my mind when I fell in love. I found that hard to believe.
That was far more than half my lifetime ago, and yet I’m still often amused by little ol’ me when it comes to what I’m willing to put up with in the kitchen to provide a tasty meal.
And onions? Well, I’ve gotten to a place where I’ve actually prayed that my (future) husband likes them because I enjoy cooking with them so much. So, I bid adieu to my emphatic declarations of childhood and conceded that my sister really was right after all.