I assume it was very important to my mother; she made a concerted effort to make my brother and I self-sufficient in terms of everyday living- we were made to know how to do pretty much all the standard homemaker skills- cooking, cleaning, shopping, etc… as well as the standard suburban male household handyman type skills.
The only reason I say I assume it must have been important is that I was always interested in learning how to cook from as far back as I remember. It was always fascinating to me to see how raw ingredients turned into good-tasting, wholesome food. She explained the basic concepts-how to measure dry and wet ingredients, how to read a cookbook, what all the culinary terms she knew meant, etc…
So by the time I went to college, I was confident enough to follow recipes for just about anything.
Practice makes perfect though; I didn’t actually become good at cooking until I was out of college and started cooking for myself and my younger brother.
My mother was a Masterchef-level cook. Seriously. But she never taught me how to cook. I had almost constant rhinitis and frequent volcanic sneezes that spread germs and not much sense of taste thanks to my nose. So I was pretty much banned from the kitchen. Since then I have learned to cook a bit. I have a very limited repertoire. Timing things right remains a problem.
I half jokingly say I learned to cook as a kid as a means of survival. Sort of true as I seemed to have different dietary needs then my parents and sought out making the food I need myself. In doing that I really learned to cook self taught and I still love to cook.
Well, when I offered to help with dinner in high school with the aim of learning to cook, they said no because that would interfere with my studies. But when I was living on my own in university, they were shocked and upset to learn that I wasn’t able to cook for myself.
So in their minds it was important, but they didn’t exactly follow through and take any steps to make it actually happen. Fortunately, we nearly always got a home-cooked meal for dinner as I was growing up, and that left enough of an impression on me that in my mind, doing something like subsisting on frozen meals and takeout wasn’t an option. I wound up learning to cook on my own by necessity.
I don’t remember my parents ever showing me how to cook, but when I wanted to cook, they let me. I pretty much made omelets and, for whatever reason, granola bars and cookies as a kid (my parents never baked cookies), and then grew up to experimenting myself. I don’t really recall ever being much supervised, they just let me at it. I’d certainly watch both my father and mother cook and help them with basic prep work when I felt like it. I don’t ever remember not being able to make a basic meal for myself, but stuff like cooking raw meat (chicken, pork, beef, etc.) I didn’t really get to until my college years (except for ground meat concoctions.)
My parents went out to eat a lot (without the kids, naturally) when we were little. My mother would pop some TV dinners (the real kind in aluminum trays) as she left and set the timer. We’d pull them out when the timer went off.
Farm kid, and learning life skills mattered. I learned how to bake quite young, first by helping Mom and then taking over, as I loved baking, and she had little time. I learned some basic cooking skills, and during school vacations, I’d have food for coffee breaks and simple lunches ready for Mom and Dad when they came in from the barns. These were mostly simple meals, slightly more complex than the easy foods we made in mandatory home ec class in Jr. high.
When I went to college, I was exposed to more kinds of foods and ingredients and my palate started to become a little more sophisticated. Third year, when I moved off campus and started living with my future ex-husband, was when I started to learn how to really cook. This many decades later, I’m still learning, and enjoying it.
My parents thought there were basic skills that any functional human being ought to have, and being able to feed oneself was on that list.
I have developed my own skills, and I’m a lot better cook than my mom, who had Depression-era thoughts about food pathogens and never made pork with actual flavor.
We were expected to be able to care for ourselves at an early age. I don’t remember having a family discussion about learning to cook. If things needed to be done, we learned to do it. No need to rely on anyone to feed us. It also increased my appreciation of anyone who did make the effort to make breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
Of course, we took many family camping, fishing, and hunting trips. I probably began my cooking career by toasting marshmallows. Worked my way up to Smores, and never looked back.
Not really too important. Neither parent was much of a cook, my mom could make some pretty bland food growing up which was ‘home cooking’ I have zero nostalgia for it. My dad could make some steaks or burgers, nothing wonderful.
As I got older, I got into competition band and
my brother was doing traveling soccer, so most meals were eaten separately and pretty basic.
In college, I worked at restaurants and at one of them I quickly volunteered to work in the kitchen as I wasn’t going to make any money working as a server, the manager gave all the best shifts to the attractive females. So, at least I learned some cooking techniques there which was helpful when I had my first apartments and didn’t have to live on take out exclusively. That was helpful as I leaned you can’t live on beer, Taco Bell, and ice cream.
I had a professional chef as a roommate for a bit as well as an adult, I picked up things from him as well.
Living solo now, I don’t cook as much as I should, unless I’m baking some chicken or fish. It’s a lot of work for just one person.
I grew up around people who cooked and baked from scratch, so even if it had been important to my parents, it wasn’t an issue that even needed discussing. I was still in grade school when I learned how to make cavatellis by hand, for instance. I never needed to learn to cook because I grew up learning how to cook.
I’m not sure how or why I learned to cook. By the time I was in HS, I was doing maybe one meal a week. Nothing very interesting. Common meal was hamburgers, mashed potatoes and some frozen veggie. Eventually I increased my repertory of meals and now I can do a fair variety. Tomorrow I will make home-made pizza for example. The dough will be nothing special (essentially water, flour, salt, olive oil, and yeast), but one filling really is special (pesto, goat cheese, olives, walnuts, and Parmesan).
Not in the least. My two older sisters learned how to cook from my mom (who was adequate but never great in the kitchen), while I, as the youngest and a boy, never really did. She wasn’t interested in teaching me, and I wasn’t interested in learning.
Very important, especially the two spells during my early/mid teen years when my mom was benched with a torn ACL surgery/recovery and then with six weeks of viral pneumonia–with both illnesses she was not allowed to cook so if the family of five was to survive, eldest daughter was gonna have to learn it all really, really fast. Which I did, up to and including a full turkey dinner since mom figured might as well teach me EVERYTHING while I was a captive student. And no, it was never even floated as an option that my dad would take care of any of this–matter of fact, us kids had to do the shopping too, and dad would just come in long enough to write the check. Great parenting, dad!
I was the one that always cajoled my (single) mother into trying to cook. I’d seen my aunt cooking quite often for Sunday dinners, but all I got at home was Kraft Dinner, spaghetti from a box kit, hot dogs with cheese stuffed through a knife slit and browned in the broiler, Spaghetti-O’s, Shake-N-Bake, etc.
The basic rule in our house was that the cook didn’t do dishes. My parents both took a solid interest in making sure none of us would starve if there wasn’t a McDonald’s nearby, though the baby would probably still be living on ramen noodles if he had his choice.
