If You Haven't Asked How You Can Help, Don't Sit Down: Why Cooking Is a Team Sport

"If you haven't asked how you can help, don't sit down." One of my adult students said this to her family, and it changed everything.

After 30 years teaching cooking to 50,000+ students, I've learned that the most important lessons happen when we work together. 

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Cooking is a team sport, and the dinner table is where we practice being in community - sharing the work, not just the meal.

If you haven’t asked how you can help, don’t sit down.

This was a profound statement from one of my adult students this week. I don’t think she even realized how powerful it was when she said it. She was sharing how exhausted she’s been, trying to cook dinner, set the table, shop, clean, and do all the things. Quietly, she’s been trying to set boundaries.

She told her family, “If you haven’t asked how you can help me, don’t sit at the table.”

That’s a rule we could all live by, not just at the dinner table, but in every part of life.

In my high school cooking classes, I often equate class to playing a team sport. One of the most common things I hear is, “Those aren’t my dishes.” That’s when I pull out my favorite line: “Who here plays a team sport?” Almost every hand goes up.

Then I ask, “What’s the goal? Why are we on a team?”

Cooking and life are both team sports. We’re working together toward a shared goal.

That’s what a family is. That’s what a classroom is. That’s what a community is.

When I was a kid, I’d do anything to get out of cleaning. But one thing I couldn’t escape was washing dishes with my dad. Looking back now, I’m so grateful he enforced that chore. It was our time. He’d ask me questions he probably wouldn’t have asked anywhere else. That small, consistent act built a connection that stuck. (And if you read my last newsletter, you know exactly what I mean.)

Before we even get to the table, there’s a lot of work that happens: cooking, cleaning, planning, shopping. I hear from so many adults, “I don’t love cooking,” not because they don’t care, but because it’s exhausting.

Here are a few reasons I see all the time:

Mental fatigue: After a long day, decision-making feels impossible. (“What should I make?” becomes a trigger.)

Perfectionism and performance anxiety: People worry they’re “not good cooks,” so they don’t even start.

Lack of appreciation: The invisible labor of cooking goes unnoticed. No one thanks the person who chopped the onions.

Loneliness: Cooking for one can amplify isolation; cooking for others can highlight imbalance.

Disconnection from ritual: We’ve forgotten that cooking is meant to be shared, not rushed.

Cultural detachment: We’ve lost intergenerational “how-to” wisdom that once made cooking communal.

Speed culture: We’ve been trained to value efficiency over nourishment.

Those are real and valid. But what’s also true is that every one of them is an opportunity for connection.

If your kids (or any family members) are complaining about what’s on the table, or not appreciating what it took to get there, it’s time to invite them in.

Let them pick a recipe from a magazine, cookbook, or online. Every week, have them make a shopping list from those recipes.

Then, let them cook. Let them chop, stir, season, and plate, even if it takes longer or gets messy. That’s where the learning and connection happen. The kitchen becomes a space for curiosity, not control.

Yes, it takes time at first. But it builds confidence, awareness, and ownership.

And most importantly, trust them. Don’t demand perfection. If the dish turns out differently than expected, that’s not failure; that’s creativity. I tell my students all the time: just because it isn’t what you thought it would be doesn’t mean it’s not equally good, or even better.

Cooking teaches flexibility, collaboration, and trust, all the things that make us better humans.

So before you sit down at any table this week, literal or metaphorical, pause and ask:

How can I help?

And even more importantly, how can I teach this skill to someone I love

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