My grandmother loved me so much—just being around her made me feel safe. She always let me “help” her with cooking and baking, setting up a small workstation just my size. There was a child-size apron, a small rolling pin, a glass of milk with no repercussions for spilling it—everything to make me comfortable in her kitchen. And I was always welcome there, whether it was to cook or to eat.
One day, she was frying zucchini. It was cut in long, vertical strips and dipped in breadcrumbs. She pulled up a stool for me to stand on so I could hover over the counter and look down on the electric frying pan. Inside was vegetable oil, hot and bubbly. My grandmother handed me a zucchini strip, and before she was able to utter any instructions on how to place it in the pan, I dropped it from high above into the hot oil. Oil splattered back, burning my hand and arm.
My grandmother allowed me to get hurt, but she saved me years of pain. She died when I was eight, but not before she taught me a lesson that I remember each time I’m in the kitchen: don’t be afraid of the danger of the heat. Instead, approach it cautiously, respectfully, and gently, and no one gets hurt.

By: Nicole
Hometown: Cleveland