Pom in Oz with Derek Goforth: Those teaching moments where it clicks and makes the job deeply satisfying

There is a particular kind of joy in teaching that never makes it onto a timetable or into a performance review. It is quiet, sudden and entirely unmistakable. It is the moment you see it click. Every teacher knows the look. The pause. The lifted eyebrows. The half smile that creeps in before the student even realises they are smiling. It is the moment confusion gives way to understanding — when effort finally pays its dues and the fog lifts. No fireworks. No applause. Just a simple, deeply satisfying yes. In cooking classes, that moment feels even richer. Maybe it is the first time a student understands why butter must be cold for pastry, not because the recipe says so, but because it makes sense now. Maybe it is the instant they realise a sauce is not ruined, it just needs patience and a whisk. Or the day they stop asking every 30 seconds if something is right and start trusting their senses instead. Cooking is wonderfully honest like that. You cannot bluff your way through it. The evidence is right there in the bowl or the pan. When a concept clicks, you see it immediately. The posture changes. Movements slow down. There is confidence where there was once panic. The bench might still be messy, but the mind is suddenly very tidy. For many students, especially those who struggle in traditional classrooms, cooking offers a rare chance to feel capable. Success is tangible. You can smell it, taste it, hold it in your hands. When understanding arrives, it does not live on a page. It becomes dinner. There is also something deeply traditional about teaching cooking that feels grounding in a noisy, rushed world. Skills passed down. Techniques refined over time. Lessons that link science, patience, creativity, and care. When a student finally understands why we do things the way we have always done them, it connects them not just to the task, but to generations who cooked before them. Those clicked moments remind teachers why they started. They cut through the paperwork, the behaviour management, the exhaustion. They whisper, this matters. You mattered today. No one claps when a student finally nails a roux or gets their scones to rise properly. But the teacher notices. And later, when the room is quiet and the dishes are done, that small victory sits heavy and warm in the chest. It is not just about teaching food. It is about teaching confidence, patience and pride in doing something properly. When it clicks, you are not just watching a student learn. You are watching them believe they can. And that is a joy that never gets old. Derek Goforth is an expat and father of three living and working in Geraldton