Tonight was a family cook fest.

My mother made the meat and gravy.

I made the side. I’m usually delegated to mashed potatoes or biscuits. My mother won’t make either one anymore, now that I’m good at it.

Tonight, it was mashed potatoes. I almost peeled my fingers with the potatoes.

“Be careful with that,” I say to my brother about the knife he’s holding. “I almost shredded my finger, so no telling what you’ll do.”

He dramatically feigns cutting himself. Typical. He’s the male version of a drama queen.

Mere minutes later, I do shred myself, or at least part of the skin of my finger. “Okay, I did shred myself.”

I wrap a tissue around my finger so I can finish the peeling.

I’m good at doing things like that. I’m a walking accident zone when it comes to sharp objects. There was a time I was banned from washing anything that had a blade.

My brother was the garlic peeler. He didn’t have any accidents. But he does ridiculous things to make up for it, like hand me a tiny saucepan for mashed potatoes.

“Are you serious?”

He finds me something more adequate after that.

It was the perfect family time activity. Each of us had our delegated task.

In many traditional-minded families, the kitchen is considered the woman’s place. Men don’t cook and they don’t enter to help their women folk cook. It’s just not done.

Sometimes, it’s the men themselves who believe it is women’s work; other times, it’s because the women believe a kitchen is no place for a boy or man.

When men do enter the kitchen, it’s to eat.

That is not my family, for which I am thankful.

All of us four children, now adults, can cook. This includes my two brothers. The older one loves to cook. Pasta dishes appear to be his favorite.

The younger does it mostly out of necessity, but he doesn’t hate it. Some things he enjoys making, like French toast. Every once in a while, he asks me to teach him how to make something. Just a, few weeks ago, he wanted to know how to make pancakes.

My father can cook, too, though it’s not common for Arab men to cook. He’s a very good cook, too. He and Mom would often cook together when they were married. When I visit Dad and he cooks, I always think to myself that his cooking tastes just like Mom’s.

There is something special about a family coming together to cook a meal. It’s different than leaving the mother or wife to do it on her own. Then it feels lonely and kind of like a chore. It’s fun if you have company or help.

There is a kind of bonding that takes place only in the kitchen. I feel that bond with my brother, because if he wants me to make him something, we do it together. I refuse to cook for him if he does not help.

“No help, no food,” I always tell him.

He knows I’m serious.

Men who feel that the kitchen is a woman’s place don’t realize what they’re missing. They don’t have to cook or even know how to be of help.

My brother spends more time bringing me things I ask for than doing any actual cooking. We talk, tease, and joke. It doesn’t matter so much that he’s not cooking as much as it does that he’s there and appreciates it. I don’t feel our bond would be the same if I cooked and he just sat back and waited.

Doing things together as a family, including what may seem like a chore, makes things fun and creates a special sort of bond that would not exist if women did all the work and men just expected it.