Guest Author - T. Lynn Adams

It all started with a broken window. It ended up with a batch of apple butter cooking in the crockpot and applesauce simmering slowly on the stove.

Early that morning my youngest children helped me wash and prepare the apples. Now, every mother knows that a child in the kitchen contributes about as effectively as a turtle on its back. But every mother also knows that she needs to let them be there. So, with the apples washed and simmering on the stove, we paraded downstairs to get the apple strainer.

All the way down the stairs the younger tried to get in front of the older one. It was a race of eagerness. When he failed to win he wound up calling his sister a name. I stopped our descent to explain to him why we don’t call people that name.

It worked until we reached the store room. He called her that name again. I spoke to him more clearly, this time asking him questions and making him think for himself why we don't call people names. This time he understood. I haven't heard the name since.

When we entered the storage room we discovered the light bulb was missing. Oh, that’s right, I remembered. My teenager needed a light bulb for his room the other night. We didn’t have any so I told him to take the bulb from the storage room. Standing in the dark storage room, remembering our conversation, I wondered if a Mormon should also have a year supply of light bulbs on hand. What kind of a Mormon mother am I if I miss something so obvious?

I consoled myself. Maybe there won’t be any power for a year, I mused.

Should I go upstairs and retrieve a flashlight? Just as quickly I threw out the idea. A flashlight in our home would be useless. No matter how many we own or where we hide them, the kids always find them and take the batteries.

So I took my third option. I waited until my eyes adjusted to the dark.

Finding the strainer, the children and I headed back upstairs accompanied by an argument over who got to help mom and carry the strainer. I settled it by letting the youngest carry it up the stairs and asking the older child to take it into the kitchen and put it on the cupboard.

While I assembled the strainer my excited children presented me with a homemade crown and necklace. I bent down and let them adorn me before going back to my work.

With the apples ready, I poured off the hot water. The scent of apples quickly filled our kitchen. Sitting on a tall stool watching the scene, my youngest inhaled deeply then said, “Man, that was refreshing.” Where does a five-year-old come up with phrases like that? I giggled. He was right, though; the smell of apples is refreshing.

Then came the job of pressing the cooked apples through the strainer. My very feminine daughter enjoyed squishing the most. “This is fun but kind of gross,” she said. She squished the apples with such exuberance that sauce splattered on the counters, my face and in my hair. I wiped off my face and added more apples to the holder.

During the task, we talked. My son told me all about ants and sandboxes and my daughter asked who I liked best, Hillary Duff or Ashley Tisdale. “I can honestly say that’s a question I’ve never thought about,” I responded. “Who do you like best?”

She said someone else.

When the applesauce was made my children suddenly caught sight of something ‘amazing’ in the backyard and disappeared almost as fast as my teenagers can. I moved chairs back to the table, did the dishes, moved more chairs back to the table (how can two children require so many chairs to stand on?) and then gathered up the apple castings to bury in the backyard.

Going outside I called the kids and told them I needed their help digging. “Hooray!” they shouted. “We get to dig!” Its usually not a task they or the dog are allowed to do.

As I bent over to start the hole my crown fell off. I’d completely forgotten about the homemade tiara. I put it back on my head and wondered what the neighbors thought.

We poured the apple castings into the hole. I asked my children if they understood what we were doing. My older daughter said it would help the plants grow. My youngest son nodded in solemn agreement. “Yeah, plants like to eat apples, too.”

In a way, he’s right.

Well, my task is completed and I have two large batches of homemade applesauce. I also have light bulbs to buy, my hair to shampoo, the strainer to return to the dark storage room and extra applesauce to share with the neighbors. In the course of accomplishing my original goal I talked to my son about name calling, helped my children resolve a dispute, received a crown, had a few laughs, maybe gave the neighbors some laughs, and talked to my children about compositing.

If I just wanted to make applesauce that’s all I would have had—applesauce.

Not a bad exchange for spending a morning with children in the kitchen–which, by the way, does smell refreshing.