Some things are learned by example, others require research, and then there are things which are more easily absorbed when taught. My mother wasn’t much of a teacher. As a career woman, and mother of three, it isn’t like she had a lot free time on her hands to gently coax us or unscrew the tops of our skulls so the information might be poured directly into our brains. She didn’t leave us to our own devices Lord of the Flies style, but many learning experiences were trial by fire, particularly when it came to cooking.

Whenever my mother, or her sisters asked my grandmother to teach them how to cook, my grandmother would point them to a sink full of dirty dishes, and respond, “You can start by washing those.” In the end, my grandmother passed down good recipes of home cookin’, but I seriously doubt she taught any of the girls how to boil water. Thankfully, she didn’t teach them how cook on high, either.

My grandmother was a different generation of a career woman raising a family. She and my grandfather were products of the Great Depression and embraced the entrepreneurial spirit of people who worked hard to earn what they had. She baked cakes. Lots of ‘em, for my grandfather’s grocery store. I suspect the first four letter word my mother learned was, shit. It was my grandmother’s expletive of choice when she dropped a freshly baked pound cake on the floor.

In spite of my grandmother’s influence, or perhaps her simple lack of patience, all three of daughters became good cooks, each bearing a distinct style of her own though all were influenced by southern traditions. The oldest, developed gourmet leanings. Unafraid to substitute ingredients if it suited her purpose, no recipe was too complex, nor too much trouble to prepare for a standing crowd of forty. What good was a crowd if you couldn’t experiment upon them? My mother, the middle child, was more traditional. She followed directions to the hundredth decimal point. The recipe wasn’t perfect, unless it contained all the ingredients exactly as printed. Unlikely to try new recipes on her own, but if prompted she would search through recipe books for hours attempting to honor my request for chinese food or paella. She is genius at selecting cuts of meat, and preparing them to their tenderest. Time spent in my grandfather’s butcher shop, was well invested.The youngest’s cooking style, was an amalgam of the older two. She tried new and exciting recipes, and followed directions with such attention as to make one think she was constructing plastic explosives in the kitchen. She surpassed the others when it came to presentation. Not only did her preparations comfort the palate, but the presentation was exquisite.

Over the years, grandchildren, would prompt my grandmother for recipes, but they all lacked the essence of what made them hers. She issued one recipe for biscuits, without including flour (her impatience wasn’t limited to teaching, apparently it included written directions as well). She advised another on her wedding day, it was essential to keep three quarts of frozen chicken stock on hand at all times, but neglected to mention why. On her fifth anniversary, the niece asked, “what am I supposed to with that chicken stock, anyway?”

Two generations of impatient women, who don’t have the time nor inclination to explain the nuances of tedious tasks. We take for granted we learned theses things the hard way, and consider you are a bright enough spark to do the same for yourself. I doubt I ever learn to make biscuits.