I sat at the table with my little sisters. The shining, teal Easy Bake Oven warmed between us, while behind us, Momma did real life kitchen work. In the rush to get cooking, we sprayed cake mix all over everywhere then quickly collected it and other unknown additives before dumping it all in the bowl. I could read, sisters couldn’t, so designations of head chef and sous chef were necessary. My sisters were neither. Every tiny, nosy finger that crept within a teaspoon of the creative space was promptly whisked away.

Outside of Easy Bake, the kitchen was a shared workspace. In the evening, our teacher-mother’s classroom carried over into the kitchen. She would ask us to help with age-appropriate tasks: measuring, washing, sifting, table-setting. She hummed and whistled cheerfully, summoning energy enough to finish the day. At breakfast Dad was the one and only chef, no sous-chefs needed. We waited and watched, tongues and eyes agog, as he whipped up cheese toast, pancakes, twinkle toes, Jimmy Dean’s sausage, anything made better with the drizzle of Georgia Cane Patch Syrup. Hands over ears could never mute his bellowing rendition of Jim Reeve’s. Today my kitchen is the perfect mix of creative workspaces with the palpable presence of dearly loved cooks still hovering: Easy-baked with Betty Crocker and the sisters; half-baked with the Jimmy’s and Dad; well-baked with Mom; but always home-baked and usually delicious.