There is this old family lore, in which I so desperately wanted to help cook dinner, but I was not allowed to handle a knife. Left alone in the kitchen, I reasoned that I could use other means to chop carrots. I hoisted myself onto the counter with the help of a chair. I sat on the counter and bit off pieces of carrot, spitting them into the pot. I was three. I am pretty sure everyone ate the carrots, anyway.
My second memory is of cooking kraft dinner with my grandmother. My "job" was to shake the cheese in the package, so that the cheese powder didn't spray everywhere. It was an important job!
Now I enlist everyone or anyone to be my sous chef. I hate washing and chopping sometimes. Maybe I will have kids and teach them to be superb sous-chefs at a young age. I will have the kind of kids you would trust with knives.