Cooking with Scrambled Legs


Like any parent, I always expected that some of the values that form the crux of my existence would be passed down to my child in the womb. Like a penchant for bad puns. A love of good food. And a general sense of direction in any kitchen. Don’t get me wrong: I never wanted to breed my kid to be a Michelin-starred chef. I just sort of expected that any child of mine would be baking his own birthday cupcakes by second grade.

That doesn’t seem likely. My son, Graham, arrived seven weeks early. Though we didn’t know it at the time, he was born with cerebral palsy, which explains why he’s progressed slowly in almost every way. He took 29 days to learn how to eat. He began to crawl an entire year later than most kids. He was way behind his peers when it came to learning to stick his fingers in electrical outlets—ditto for throwing food. And today, at nearly three years old, he still can’t stand on his own.

Having a kid with a disability isn’t devastating. It’s disorienting. I’ve tried to ignore what all the parenting books say my child should be able to do. I’ve tried to be patient. But I can’t imagine not teaching Graham certain things. So in our little red leather notebook—the one that starts with a list of my first trimester food cravings—we record inchstones, not milestones.

I like to think that Graham and I began inching our way toward cooking together when he was 10 months old. One morning while running errands, I noticed him squirming in his car seat as if he was trying to get out. This made me wonder whether he might finally be strong enough to sit up in the grocery cart instead of being strapped to my chest. I was giddy at the thought. I wanted my kid to look out in awe at aisles and aisles of food. I wanted him to reach for anything and everything he found curious. And I wanted him to touch the same green plastic bar every other snot-nosed kid had slimed. So I plunked him in the cart and there he sat, wobbly but upright, sporting the orthotic helmet the doctors had prescribed, poor kid.

At the deli counter, we passed a woman with a small tot in her own cart. She scanned me with the kind of X-ray vision that makes one happy to be wearing nice underwear. “We used to have a helmet, too,” she confided reassuringly. “It does get easier.”

After she ordered her sliced turkey from the guy behind the counter, she handed a thin, floppy roll of meat to her son, rubbed his back protectively, and turned to me. “He’s two,” she continued. “But he still doesn’t really like to walk.”

In that moment, it was clear to me that her kid was different, too–and that she wouldn’t have wished it any other way.

I’ve never, ever wished Graham were any other way. But here’s what I do wish. I wish I’d pulled that woman aside, a pound of sliced salami still in my hand, and asked if she had plans the rest of the morning. I wish she and I’d given our children free reign over the cold cuts while we slumped down against the bread shelves, our elbows smooshing the oat bread behind us, and shared our stories. I wish she’d explained in no uncertain terms that her son had cerebral palsy. I wish I’d kept the calming image of this happy, patient mom and her bright-eyed, intelligent kid etched in my mind a year later, when my husband, Jim, and I sat next to Graham on a pint-size purple exam table at Seattle’s Children’s Hospital, stunned, as a nurse practitioner explained without emotion that our son showed unmistakable symptoms of CP. And I wish I’d revisited that image each time I started to panic about what this condition meant for Graham and his future, because maybe then I wouldn’t have felt so alone.

The day Graham was diagnosed, an intern handed us some information on parenting children with CP, the name of a school for disabled children, and a juice box. But I’m not the sort that follows parenting handbooks. Besides, there were things I wanted to know that the doctors couldn’t tell us–enough to fill umpteen handbooks. Like when Graham would learn to walk or tie his shoes. If he’d ever have the balance to ride a bike. And if he’d someday stand at the counter long enough to learn to make scrambled eggs with those scrambled legs.

Given what we’d been told about Graham’s calf muscles being permanently clenched—which explains why he could only attempt to stand on his super tippy-toes with very poor balance—I couldn’t imagine my son ever stirring and measuring and mixing alongside me. So when he became too big to hold in one arm while I cooked, I had no choice but to leave him playing on his own whenever dinner called. Each time I walked into the kitchen, I felt like I was leaving a piece of myself behind. I tried, I really tried, but I couldn’t fathom not teaching him to cook. So whenever I made something, I distracted myself from our current reality by brainstorming tasks Graham might be able to do one day. Surely, I thought, once he could stand and balance on a stool with a little help, he could toss some chopped carrots and celery into a pot of soup. Spill breadcrumbs on the floor. Maybe help mash some potatoes.

This continued until Graham turned two. That’s when we found a savvy pediatric neurologist who asked what sorts of things we dreamed of doing with our son as a family. My husband and I explained that we used to ski every weekend before Graham was born, and that we’d love to continue that little tradition. With the neurologist’s help, we figured out how to turn Graham’s walker, which makes him look like the world’s tiniest old man, into a sort of snow-friendly battle cruiser. It was an approach that calmed the parental panic so intertwined with raising a disabled child, and helped us understand that yes, we needed to change our approach to raising a kid, but no, we didn’t need to change everything about our lives.

That’s when I got a blinding flash of the obvious. I’d bring the kitchen counter down to Graham.

There, more than three feet below my cutting board, on the slick wood planks between our oven and cabinet, Graham began to “cook.” At first we’d just shuffle things around together. I’d give him a bowl of multicolored baby potatoes small enough for his little muscles to pick up, and together we’d transfer them to the roasting pan and I’d let him pretend to salt and pepper them. Many nights we ended up with olive oil on the dog or a potato wedged underneath the dishwasher. I didn’t care. It was the closest he and I’d ever come to cooking together.

In time I came to understand that cooking with Graham didn’t necessarily mean standing next to him. It could mean him playing on the floor in the kitchen, feeding his dump truck imaginary strawberries, while I stirred risotto. Or him smearing cream cheese on the oven door while I microwaved fish sticks. (My son may know how to order “Chicken pho, please!” but as the mother of a toddler, I am not above frozen fish sticks.) Or him plunking cans of sweetened condensed milk, plum tomatoes, and coconut milk in a stainless steel bowl, banging them loudly with a potato masher, and then presenting it to me proudly, saying, “Mommy, I made you cauliflower. Do you like it?” It can be anything, really, as long as we’re together and one of us has the undeniable intention of feeding the other.

Graham’s now strong enough to lift the head on our stand mixer with one teensy hand while he holds onto the counter for balance with the other. He’s a big enough little man to pull the fridge door open, hoist his body up, and lean against the shelves while he just stares at the food. And last December, he was able to stand on a chair, rest against the cupboard, and craft hexagon-shaped Christmas cookies by jackhammering aspic cutters into cookie dough, pounding and massaging every single molecule of butter into the counter, and triumphantly announcing, “And then…it came to be…TWO HEXAGONS!” These are the moments I now jot down in our little red book.

I’m not proud of my child for singlehandedly reinventing cutout cookies. (Although, you’ll see. Next Christmas, hexagons will be the new stars.)  I’m proud of him for having the strength to stand at the counter and cook. And I’m proud of myself for having had the patience to wait for him to be ready. And I know that someday, when I can trust him not to fall into the gas flame, and when he’s over his irrational fear of egg yolks, together he and I will make scrambled eggs.


  1. You might get to scrambled eggs sooner by using an induction hot plate at the his table and ferromagnetic cookwear. The pans mght be heavier, but the plate is not hot. The cookware and egg are.

  2. What a testament to the power of determination! It is so great to know that there are those in our lives who can help us overcome and/or work around things that we see as enormous obstacles. I love that you persevered and learned to see things in a different way and that you are moving forward to include your son in the things you cherish most. Thank you for sharing this!

  3. Beautiful words, Jess! Graham is so lucky to have you and Jim as parents. And you two are lucky to have Graham. He is such a delight and will inspire people his entire life!

  4. Eggs and eloquence in sharing parenting….Beautiful, Jess. Your writing well deserved the Leite’s Culinaria writing award at the Symposium for Professional Food Writers! As parents, we all face challenges – my son was legally blind at birth, yet is an active electrical engineer, now in his 40s. Patience and love to you and your family. And consider writing for parenting magazines….

  5. My family has been blessed with two children who are challenged. I have one grandson who is autistic (now 19 yrs old), and a grandson who got a rare form of valley fever that strikes the brain and has 2 shunts. Milestones are so precious to us! When Kevin says to his mother that she can’t cook but Grandmother can, holding my hand with a joyous gleam in his eye because he has made a joke, we celebrate. When Jack learned to walk at 16 months instead of the 5 years the doctors were expecting, we celebrate. In these two families, celebrations are almost daily because our challenged kids live up to their potential and pass it many times. And, I truly believe God gives the challenges to the people He knows can live up to them My daughters are the strongest people I know!

  6. Jess, Our family cooks together all the time. We have a 36 yr old, five stroke survivor (brain cancer radiation treatment at age 2 caused) in the family and our attitute is “if you can get it in your mouth, you can help cook it”. Through all the rehab, we keep coming back to that most rewarding of all activities! She receives botox every 3 mos for about 7 years now to ease stiffening when transferring from her chair. It has worked fine without problems. Your family will learn for make its own normal and in the process give many others permission to appreciate what they have and celebrate their differences. My mission as a mom was always removing barriers, just going in front and sweeping them away so she could do whatever part she could and experience life along with her 3 brothers. I have to say, it worked. Best wishes for your family.

  7. Dear Jess,

    Graham is lucky that you are his Mom. You and Graham will walk through life and he’ll walk tall because you’re doing it together. You’re an amazing Mom! And I’m sure Graham already knows that.

  8. A beautiful essay, Jess. These challanges do change a persons perspective about what’s important. My daughter (childhood cancer survivor) and I managed to finally find an activity in the kitchen that allowed her to do some things for herself when she was feeling very limited by her challange at the time. It was cathartic for me to feel that I was helping her find hope…for both of us, actually.

  9. I first read this posting yesterday and was thinking about it throughout the day, and even more so after my kids were at home. The first thing I did when I saw them was give them a great big hug and thank them for being whom they are. Your words are so sincere and from the heart, and your experiences as a parent are beautiful. I’ve had my daughters in the kitchen with me since they were tiny little things, as I work full-time and that’s the only spare time I have with them. In addition to my girls slowly learning the ins and outs of cooking, I enjoy every second I can share with them in the kitchen, teaching them about the passion I have. I totally get about the kitchen becoming a mess, flour floating through the air, beaten eggs all over the counter, and so on. It can be a challenge, but it is a good one. You truly are an amazing parent and your little one is lucky to having you share all these precious moments, however hard it may be sometimes.

  10. They tried Botox on me for Achalasia, but it didn’t work for me. I ended up having surgery to help relax my cardiac sphincter muscle at the base of my esophagus above my stomach. I hope the Botox works a long time for your little man. I know of a child it helped who had her little neck pulled down to one of her shoulders from those tight fixated muscles. Her disease was not cerebral palsy, but a rare neuro-muscular disease.

    I love how you’ve just done things differently to include your little guy in your daily activities, instead of just not doing them. Granted, I’m sure it takes more time, but when you devote time to a child, I personally think you’re devoting time to future.

  11. Just beautiful; still wiping away the tears. I’ve had the honor of working with special needs kids, giving cooking classes at our local elementary school, and it is truly one of the most gratifying experiences I’ve ever had. I hope to be able to take some strength from you Jess and bring it in to future classes. I’ve always taken away far more from these classes then I ever put in… If you’ve never done this contact your local school and see if they will let you teach one of these classes.

  12. I have two teen-aged children with disabilities (a daughter who had leukemia and was brain-damaged by the chemo/radiation treatments and a son with autism and mood disorders). I completely understand your story. It took a very long time, but I cook with my children, regularly. I think that it is the one thing that equalizes all people. We all eat (and need to eat). Making food together brings us together in a way that no other activity can.
    You will cook scrambled eggs with your son, someday. I am sure of that. And it will feel sooo good.

  13. Jess: Just lovely — just the right tone and touch. Kudos to you for figuring out how to cook with your son. Graham’s got one clued-in mama and I wish for the two of you that down the tracks you do get to scramble eggs together.

  14. A beautiful piece. Thank you for sharing your own development honestly. My son Jack also has CP. We try very hard to remember who we are and who we want to be as a family..then create the accommodations Jack needs to succeed. And patience is a tough character trait to master, it was/is a learned skill for me.

  15. How can I ever eat scrambled eggs again or see the helmeted rider in the shopping cart without wondering how you two heroes are coming along? Thanks for sharing your gift.

  16. What a lovely essay. It reminds me of the smartest kid in my elementary school, Robert. He had CP. You may enjoy the comedy of Maysoon Zayid. She is hilarious and has CP.

  17. Jess, I couldn’t get back to the computer to comment until now, but I have to say that your essay is one of the most inspiring things I’ve read in a very long time–and I mean that across websites and genres. I felt the ache of your aspirations for your son, the wish for companionship on what must sometimes feel like a path you walk alone.

    As others have said, your words made me look at life and parenting in a different way today. A slower way, more grateful for even the small things–or especially the small things, when those things are often taken for granted.

    Thank you for the generous opening of your heart to us, and for the example of your bravery, optimism, love, and persistence. I don’t know who’s the luckier, you or your son, but it’s perfect that you have each other.

  18. This — “helping us understand that yes, we needed to change our approach to raising a kid, but no, we didn’t need to change everything about our lives.”

    So glad you found someone who understood, and could help. Graham is awesome — here’s to many more years learning and cooking together.

  19. Hits very close to home, Jess. My 32 year old daughter, Sara, has the mental age of 2 and is severely handicapped. She does not have speech; still in diapers; walked at 9. Requires round the clock care in the group home she is in. Yet, the lessons I learned from her are incredible.

  20. What a lovely piece. You and your husband and Graham are lucky to have one another – it sounds like you have a happy household. What a smart doctor to ask such an important question.

  21. Thank you for sharing your story with such honesty, humor and love. I hope you put this essay in your red book. May you and Graham make many meals together!

  22. I cried when I read this beautifully written 2 year old grandson was just diagnosed with systemic Juvenile inflammatory arthritis, and my son is so scared and worried about the future. No one can really tell you what the future holds, and the lesson is to take it a day at a time and to appreciate the little things.

  23. Absolutely beautiful! I too have a friend with CP, he is in his mid forties, has found the love of his life and is a very happy man. I hope the same and more for your son, many happy years and blessings.

  24. A gorgeous story. Dare I say “gorgeous” to such serious matters? Well, no matter–it is. I’m going out to the deck to sit a bit after reading it. It just seems to require me to be quiet for a bit. A lovely thing, that, too.

  25. Thank you, Jess Thomson, for adding more perspective to my life. I just finished reading this article and am filled with admiration for your patience and skill and loving determination to allow Graham to be all that he can be. I too found myself saying “Thank you” for all that I have despite disappointments and fears, realizing how fortunate I am. My heartfelt wishes to you, Jim and Graham and I know I will think of you frequently.

  26. Jess, thank you for sharing your gift with all of us.

    You and Graham, together, are an inspiration, and I bet the deli-counter lady would be incredibly humbled to learn how her small words of kindness and understanding moved you. I know for sure you’ve moved me and many, many others with your beautiful reflection.

  27. CP has been in my life always… have a cousin and a good friend… both are productive exciting members of their communities.. Friend worked with the SuperBowl Host Committee.. and has more friends in his 20 some years, than I’ve made in 60… Ask for their best and it will be given..

  28. After finishing this article, I just sat in front of my computer screen and said “Thank You” for my life. Filled with worries and aggravations, problems and disappointments, I realized just how lucky I really am. We all have “full plates” these days, and it is very easy to get so caught up in our own minutiae that we can (and do) lose sight of the bigger picture. So, thank you for bringing a great big dose of perspective into my day. And I hope you have a day filled my much joy and contentment as well.

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